by Nik C. ’24

The corn bent and shifted in the wind. A long dirt road ran alongside the fields. Roger crouched in a shallow ditch on the side of the road. He craned his neck and squinted. The corn rustled behind him. He eyed the road for an oncoming car. 

The road was dusty and didn’t have clear edges. Pebbles were scattered on it, and when a car drove over it they leapt up and pattered the underside with a sound like rain. 

Roger fingered the bottle he held in his left hand—his father’s bottle. He tipped it into his mouth. A single drop rolled onto his tongue and he scrunched his face up and spat it out. 

Rearing back he threw the bottle at the dirt road. It shattered, and shards of glass scattered among the pebbles.

“Home run!” he said.

He saw a cloud of dust forming down the road. The rumble of an engine came from the distance, the bumpy put-put-put-put and the rainstorm of pebbles growing louder. Roger retreated back into the corn to watch.

The car came hurtling by and the corn swished and bent towards the ground and whipped Roger in the face. He couldn’t see anything as the car went by. A moment later, a high-pitched sound, almost a squeal of sorts, erupted. 

He didn’t understand what had happened. The car was already gone. There was a little black pile of scruff on the road. At first he thought it was a skunk.

Roger wondered why the dog was just lying there. It was sort of curled up. He inched closer.

Its sides heaved up and down; its eyes lolled. He could see the rise and fall of each rib on the dog’s side. He poked behind the dog’s ear, its fur was matted and rough to the touch. The dog trembled, and he pulled his hand back. Glass crunched under his sneakers. He circled the dog until he was facing its stomach and paws. Deep lines of red criss-crossed the charcoal pads, oozing onto the ground in little red puddles. Roger stared. The scarlet drew him in, and he thought he might throw up. 

The wind blew and lifted the dog’s scruff up. Roger heard a shuffle of dragging footsteps and the tapping of a cane. He rushed into the cornfield and dove down.

Peering out, he recognized Haru, the old Japanese man who walked around town talking to himself. He was thin, with long, bent limbs. He stooped over his cane when he walked and shook it at cars who drove too fast. 

“He-ey, where’s your master, little one?” Haru said to the dog.  He stopped in front of the animal and coughed. “You little thing, you poor little thing!” When he bent over, his knobby spine stuck out of a hole in the back of his shirt. “What’s happening here?” 

Haru reached forward his spindly fingers and took the dog’s head in his hands. He looked up in Roger’s direction. “Hey, you. Who’s hiding in there? Come on out, come out of the corn! Come, friend, come and help us. This little mutt needs water.” 

“I wasn’t hiding!” Roger yelled.  He wiped his nose and scrambled out of the corn with his water bottle. 

Haru took the bottle from Roger. He fumbled with the cap and placed it into Roger’s palm, then slid his hand under one of the dogs paws and lowered a trickle of water into the gash. “This will sting him, sting bad. He hurt himself on this glass.” The dog convulsed and whined and Haru continued. “How did this glass get here, do you know?” 

“I’m sure whoever put it here didn’t mean for no dog to run on it.”

Haru ran his fingers down the dog’s back and it quieted. “That may be true, it may well be. But it happened anyway, didn’t it?”

The wind swirled around them and the dog thrashed and Haru just stared.

Roger bit the inside of his cheek and stood up. “Why should I care, just ‘cause that dumb ole’ dog ran into the glass. He should have known better.” 

Haru cradled the dog’s back paw. “How should he have known? How could this small thing have known?” 

“I don’t know! It isn’t my job to know!”  Roger yelled. 

Haru placed a shard of bloody glass onto the ground and dabbed the dog’s paws with his handkerchief. 

How dare he keep going like that, all methodical and calm! “Look!” Roger shoved in between Haru and the dog and grabbed the dog. He carried him and placed him on the ground at the edge of the cornfield. The dog trembled and looked at him with wide eyes. “There, I helped him. Now he can walk away without stepping on the glass. He got hurt, and I helped him.” 

The corn rustled and the dog shook and lay flat on his side like he was dead. “Now he can get up if he wants to.” 

He looked at Haru, who had brushed the glass into little piles with his shoe and was kicking them off the road.

“You’re just an old coot,” Roger shouted. “You’re crazy!” 

The old man’s thin black hair rose and fell in the wind. He limped to the side of the road and leaned down slowly, wrapped his arms around the dog, and lifted it. Haru looked back and shook his head and slipped into the cornfield. The wind rose and the corn bent and hissed as Haru and the black dog disappeared.