Her name was Mystic.

John never called her that when others were around, especially Bruce. A psychic with a dog named Mystic? The idea sounded bizarre even to him. So the dusky form of gray and black fluff that periodically wandered through his life was Misty, which suited just as well.

She appeared to be a cross between a German Shepherd and an Alaskan Husky. Black ears that stood straight up and an exceedingly long muzzle peppered with gray. Thick fur that felt like silk beneath his fingers and a brush of a tail as straight as an arrow. John saw her for the first time the day after he got out of the hospital.

“What are your plans?”

“Just to walk ten miles.”

Gene Purdy drove away in his limousine with more questions than answers on that unusually warm fall morning. John soldiered on, determined to reach his goal despite the searing pain in his damaged right leg and the general feeling of weakness that persisted.

His feet steered him to Alison Conover’s quiet neighborhood without conscious intent. The vision of the attacking dog gleaned from the mailbox was a disconcerting reminder of how much John’s life had changed since awakening two months earlier. Sheriff Walt Bannerman’s presence and blunt allegations caught him off-guard. It would be inconceivable for the John Smith of 1995 to be accused of such a crime. Walt did not know that man and the prospect of sharing his life with John’s present incarnation clearly disturbed him. The feeling was mutual. Walt would never know how close John had come to hitting him during their brief conversation. When they parted company the Sheriff’s expression was tight with anxiety and thinly veiled pity.

John hated him.

Afterwards, John limped along the deserted streets, trying to disseminate the useless emotion and find an honest sense of strength. Home lay miles and lifetimes away. Since awakening, John had struggled to get a handle on reality. The more effort he put forth, the further away it seemed to slip.

He stopped to rest in a vacant lot that was crowded with saplings and fronted by a drainage ditch. Tree branches overhung the bank, offering inviting shade and concealment. Foregoing better judgment, John left the sidewalk and eased down the slope to sit on the edge. He was sweating profusely beneath the light jacket but he kept it on. The insects were thick and vicious from the unseasonable heat.

The ditch burbled over rocks and trash with equal vigor. The sound of the water provided a subtle distraction from the throbbing ache in his thigh and the sharper pain of suspicion and disdain exuded by Walt. John massaged the tight muscles and tried not to think about whom the Sheriff would be going home to. It was not fair but he would have to learn to live with it—or go insane trying.

The unsettling sensation of being watched prickled the hair on John’s neck. He turned and stared directly into the ghostly gray irises of a dog.

The animal crouched quietly beneath the branches of a scraggly pine. The eyes were unearthly, cool and clear like a frozen pond. John looked into them and saw his reflection—and something more. Lurking beneath the hazy image was an undeniable intelligence that caught the breath in his throat.

Paranoid?

He blinked rapidly, suddenly hoping that the silent creature was a left over mirage of the Rottweiler that had attacked the hapless mailman.

The dog remained.

It lowered its long muzzle onto its speckled paws and continued to stare. John laughed shakily. “Hi there. Where did you come from?”

Nothing.

He shook his head. Talking to a dog? Another sign of serious—was Doctor Tran kidding—brain damage? John knew that people talked to their pets all the time. He had no first hand experience however. Vera Smith was germ-phobic and never allowed anything more interactive than a goldfish into the Smith house. Tank and trimmings went by the wayside the first time the water turned green.

John ran a hand through his damp hair and shrugged. The animal had not moved from the shade of the tree. It seemed curious but harmless. Apparently, he was free to leave without fear of toothy reprisals.

Hauling himself erect with the aid of the silver cane, John turned to climb up the bank to the sidewalk. Two steps up and he realized his mistake. The terrain was slippery with stones and dying grass. Quietly cursing his stupidity, John looked up and down the length of the ditch for a gentler slope.

Hot, moist breath blew across the back of his free hand.

John froze.

Teeth clamped down lightly onto his wrist.

John looked down into the bright, gray eyes and swallowed hard. The dog’s touch had not triggered a vision. He had only good old-fashioned panic to deal with. “Let go!”

The animal blinked at the demand but did not release its grip. Instead, it backed up the bank, tail swinging slowly from side to side as it pulled gently on his arm.

What the hell?

John followed, helpless to do otherwise. If he pulled back the dog might bite down harder, rending flesh and bone. Worse, it could let go and send him tumbling backwards into the ditch. A fine target if the animal decided to turn vicious.

As they topped the slope, John slipped and the dog’s claws dug into the dirt. It did not growl or even pant with the effort to pull his considerable weight the final few feet to the edge of the sidewalk. The teeth slid down his fingers and a narrow tongue licked the tips before the dog released him completely and sat down.

“Thanks,” John gasped, annoyed that he was winded from the effort and the dog was not.

The large head cocked to one side, seeming to consider his comment. Eventually, the animal turned and began to walk slowly down the sidewalk in the same direction John had been traveling.

Weird. But then what did he know from normal at this point? Shaking his head, John followed behind at a snail’s pace.

The afternoon wore on into evening. The dog stayed with John, never more than ten steps ahead. He did not dwell on the fact that the animal never made a wrong turn, despite having no visual cues from him on where to go. There were two more rest stops. First in a small park set with a scattering of picnic tables and a fountain of a mounted soldier, tarnished green. Second was at a corner-store for a bottle of water and a candy bar. Each time the dog lay down in the closest shade and waited. When John came out of the store, he caught the animal watching the door and could not help a smile. It seemed content in the role of guardian and his fear gave way to a tentative ease.

Evening threw blurry shadows across the broad streets of John’s neighborhood and brought the sharp bite of the north wind. He was shaking with exhaustion and knew Bruce’s morning therapy session would be particularly brutal to endure. The satisfaction of attaining his goal would have been worth the promised pain if not for the sticky issues of Alison’s disappearance and his encounter with Sheriff Bannerman.

At the mouth of his driveway, John turned and looked at the dog standing in the shadow of the hedge. This was another good-bye, though he wasn’t sure why it mattered. Life was replete with breaks and u-turns of late. “Now what?” he asked quietly.

The dog sat down and licked idly at its right paw. John peered closer in the gathering gloom and noticed that it was a she.

“You must have a name.”

She settled down into a crouch and tilted her head at him.

“It’s not so weird, you know. Talking to a dog I mean.” John smiled ruefully. Who was he trying to convince?

A passing car slowed down. John turned around and caught the eye of the driver. The two shared a look before the engine roared and the startled woman sped away. The incidents involving Elaine’s daughter Maggie and Doctor Tran’s mother had been all over the papers. Clearly, the woman recognized him and felt qualified to pass judgment even as she fled in fear. John swallowed a sigh. When had beating the odds become more of a curse than a blessing? He turned back to the hedge.

The dog was nosing at a tuft of grass. She stopped and cocked an eyebrow as he slowly approached.

“Can I touch you, or is that not allowed?” John asked. The animal blinked and lifted her nose. Cold and wet touched his palm.

***The tree-lined street evolved to open beach. Variegated sands gave way to rocky outcrops that tumbled down into turbulent breakers. John raised a hand against the glare of the sun and spotted a lone figure walking through the fjord below him. A woman dressed in shades of gray and blue. Nearly invisible against the damp stone, she walked with her head tilted down, her hair a lank veil. One hand was slung in a pocket the other clutching a lock of long blond hair. The waves swept in and out of the rocky cut but she did not appear to notice. Boots and pant legs dripped froth as she walked in a seemingly aimless pattern.

John looked behind her. His eyes traveled up and over a jagged rise and fell upon the dog. She stood watch over the woman with tail lowered and eyes transfixed.***

John shivered, struck by the sorrow exuded by the woman. “You have interesting taste in masters,” he said.

Masters?

John dried his hand on his jeans and fished the key from his pocket to unlock the small gate nestled in the front hedge. No, this would never work for more reasons than the obvious. That the idea had even surfaced proved how exhausted he was. John fitted the key to the lock and turned. He was curious about the woman and that disturbed him. Where was the limit to this ability? Should he just expect intrusion at every juncture? What peace if touching even the smallest thing was likely to produce a vision?

“Hey!”

The dog brushed past his leg and darted through the partially open gate. She disappeared quickly into the trees that edged the north side of the lawn.

“Wait a minute…” John rolled his eyes. “Listen to yourself. Talking to her like she’s a human being. Bet that would play well at a sanity hearing.” He locked the gate and started towards the house. The air was thick with the last of the summer crickets. In the distance he heard the throaty pulse of a bullfrog and the shrieks of playing children. The latter raised a lump in John’s throat. He bit back a curse and limped up the steps.

There was no point in railing against the truth. It stood without bias or intent. Sarah had JJ—a life of PTA, carpooling, Sunday suppers and Saturday matinees.

Walt had Sarah.

Jesus.

John sat down on the steps, folded his arms across his knees and rested his head in the crook. He did not want to hear that it could have been worse, that at least he was alive. He was not interested in Gene’s claims of the divine. Walt was living what should have been John’s life and the knowledge was brilliant, brutal light that burned from core to fingertip.

A warm tongue licked his ear. John grunted irritably and tried to shrug it away. The dog persisted, shoving her long nose in the hollow between neck and shoulder.

***Sunlight bloomed in shades of umber and gold. New leaves glistened from tender stems and slowly uncurled to a violet sky.

The man in the wheelchair stared up through the branches of the maple tree. A single sheet of paper rested in his lap. He fingered the edges, smoothing and crinkling without notice. His lips were moving and John stepped closer to hear.

The Lord’s Prayer?

He bent and read the first lines scrawled on the page.

Dear Rodney,

I’m so sorry for what I did to you. I should never have gone to that party…

John looked up and saw the glint of tears on the man’s cheeks.

The prayer ended abruptly. Gnarled hands crumpled the letter and threw it on the ground. The man covered his face and wept in great gasps and stilted moans. John turned away, granting privacy out of instinct.

The dog stood at the edge of the shade cast by the tree. She padded slowly across the grass and picked up the discarded letter. The man sighed shakily as she dropped the paper back into his lap and sat down. “You’re right, lil’ Miss,” he mumbled as he knuckled the tears from his eyes. “I should keep it.”****

John sniffed deeply and sat back. The wind fanned the unexpected tears from his cheeks as he looked at the dog. “What’s your point?” he whispered.

She sank down into a crouch and sniffed idly at the granite steps.

Oh come on! Perhaps he had finally flipped? Fallen over the edge, off his rocker, skipped a groove? The latter elicited a nostalgic smirk. Did people still say that now? Hell, did stores even sell vinyl records anymore? John doubted it but not with any conviction. Like everything else since awakening, such mundane knowledge was instinctive and not to be trusted.

Bruce would laugh at his insecurities. Initially, John had been offended and hurt by such reactions. He knew better now. The physical therapist was probably the most dedicated man John had ever met. His humor—like his hands—was meant to heal, not impede. John relied on Bruce’s counsel and knew innately the dark path that he would have taken without it. He often woke in a cold sweat and scared silly by that knowledge and all it implied.

Was this the message he was meant to see? Not to take it all so seriously? John scrubbed a hand across his forehead and looked out across the south lawn. The grass was nearly black beneath the emerging starlight. Cars rumbled up the hidden street and snatches of conversation drifted on the breeze. He listened to the neighborhood emerge from daytime slumber to evening life and felt a dull ache deep in his chest.

John expected to feel depressed after learning of JJ’s existence and Sarah’s marriage to Walt. Accepting that his ‘gift’ was a permanent condition revealed an even deeper level of anxiety. He fought grimly to retain some part of his former self amidst the encroaching darkness. He eventually concluded that it was the hospital that prevented a sense of normalcy from taking hold. The sterile environment left no room for his mind to accept reality. Everyone was pulling for his recovery but John was convinced that going home would put everything to rights. Home was familiar, unchanged since the last time he stepped through the door. He needed that anchor.

The effect was exactly the opposite.

Each step through the dusty rooms reminded him of how much had been lost, how little could ever be retrieved.

John drew a hand down over his face and looked sideways at the dog. Her fur was tinged pale yellow by the light over the front door. She lay stretched the length of the steps, her nose an inch from his thigh.

Intentional distance?

He shook his head. Foolishness to attribute such consideration to a dog!

Or was it?

Her tail thumped heavily against the stone.

The fingers of John’s free hand clenched into a tight fist. Should he test the theory? Did he misread the first two visions and what if he had not? He sensed a lesson in her presence and the reluctance to learn it twisted sharply in his guts. To let the knowledge in was the first real step away from his old life and towards the new one.

The dog inched forward and nudged the balled fingers.

***The last rays of a setting sun stretched fuchsia and gold across the sky. John stood atop a grassy knoll and turned in a slow circle, searching. He spotted two figures moving against a black stand of pine trees below. An old man, slightly hunched and shuffling. and a young girl.

The two reached a break in the trees and stood facing the western sky. Their stick-like shadows stretched to the base of the slope and quivered with the rise and fall of the breeze as it swept the grass. The old man held out a small object to the girl. She shook her head and he nodded emphatically in reply. She touched his cheek and he leaned briefly against her fingers. The object passed between them and she manipulated it, eventually dropping a piece to the ground.

John squinted but did not move closer. The vision was warm with summer heat, alive with the smell of flowers and moist earth. He felt intrusive for watching and powerless to turn away.

The girl turned slightly and part of her arm disappeared into the object. It reemerged and flung wide in one fluid motion. Ashes spun away from her fingers. She reached in a second time and the cloud grew, obscuring the sun to a baleful, crimson ball.

John closed his eyes. Their grief was palpable. The vision burned through his lids and seared the retinas. He moaned softly and turned away, eyes now wide and searching.

Where was she?

The dog moved ghost-light across the grass towards the distant figures. The girl passed the urn to the man and he held it tight to his chest as he reached in for a handful of ashes. She watched them float away and then knelt down to stroke the head of the dog. The animal nuzzled her hand and stretched to lick her cheeks. High laughter and soft words echoed off the trees and carried up the slope. “Say good-bye, Mystic.”***

The vision dissolved into the cold darkness, leaving John with the now familiar sense of vertigo. He rubbed his throbbing temples and drew a shaky breath. The lesson was drawn in shades of grief and hope, warmth and bitter cold. There to take or reject and damn the consequences either way.

God, why me?

John dared not ask the question. In some recess of his damaged brain lay the inexplicable notion that he might actually receive an answer. He stared down at the dog. She looked back, eyes cool and calming in spite of their unearthly glimmer. John smiled and she nosed his limp fingers. The world remained fixed and he sighed relief.

“Mystic?”

The tail thumped. She inched closer and laid her head on his leg.

John pushed weak fingers through the silky fur on the dog’s neck and back. Gene Purdy would call Mystic’s presence divine providence. John shied away from the idea but could find no other plausible explanation, which was equally frustrating. Accident or fate, John was sure of one thing. His relationship with the dog would be intermittent for reasons he could not control. Her spirit, light and loyalty would not be caged by his traumas. Nor anyone else’s it appeared.

John stared into the night for a long time. One large hand sunk deep into the lustrous fur.

The End