“Why do we live in a world where first aid kits are so inadequate?”
The tail thumped.
“Why do we live in such a world at all?” Her voice was so distraught that it worried even her, so she went for something calmer. “Do border collies have tails? Or are you…an Aussie? Or a mutt? I don’t know much about dogs.”
The dog thumped her tail even more.
“What do you want to be named?”
The dog cocked her head and then put it back between her paws.
“Stupid, stupid little Band-Aids, sure, you might want a few butterfly Band-Aids, especially if your forehead would scar, like mine did after my accident at Avogadro’s Number—that’s the restaurant where I waitressed—but seriously, if you were out in a forest and got hurt, literally the last thing you would care about is a paper-cut-size Band-Aid. Like, I bet ninety-nine percent of the tiny Band-Aids are never used by anyone, anywhere, at any point in time. Except for perhaps children, but only because they like to stick them everywhere, but that’s because they are being used as stickers.” While she talked, she lined up the items, first one way, then another. “All first aid kit makers should be sued for stupidity. But of course, what I really mean is that all dog abusers should be sued and jailed and perhaps swiped off the face of the planet, though very few people are brave enough to say that and mean it. I mean it. Rapists and child abusers and animal abusers. Gone. I’m sorry someone did this to you.”
She put ointment on the small round scars—some were healed and some were pink and new, and while she wasn’t sure what they were, she was sure they were sore and painful. Then she ran her fingers across the dog again, feeling for broken bones or other injuries, and remembered that once upon a time she’d wanted to be a nurse, which is what her mother had been. Too late for that now. She’d be dead of old age before she got through school.
“My emergency kits are the most perfectly organized and complete kits known to humankind. I have three of them, each unique. Here’s what you need, what every car should have.” As she listed each item, she picked it up and showed the dog, and then leaned down to put a checkmark on a list she’d made for each container:
Water bottle: You need a way to carry it.
Pan to boil water: Water is fairly useless if it will kill you.
Matches: To make fire to do so.
Water purifying tablets if you cannot make a fire.
Water itself: Humans’ weak spot, as anyone in Flint, Michigan, could sadly attest to.
She heard herself make a gasping intake of breath. My god, that man was out there. He might burn her with matches or cigarettes, cut her, abuse her. She shook her head, no, as if to shake off the fear, and continued:
Freeze-dried meals, to sustain one during mini-crises, humans having annoying caloric needs.
Bags of beans and rice, to sustain one during long-term crises—ditto.
Fish hooks, wire, rope, to sustain one during really long-term crises—ditto.
Updated medicines, both prescription and the few actually helpful OTCs—pain and infection being a biggie.
Space blanket, tarp, heat packs; warmth a biggie since humans’ caloric needs aren’t really enough to keep them warm.
Knife to cut things, and, conversely, duct tape to bind them together.
Pepper spray—for bad people and the occasional bad animal.
Journal and pen—because clear thinking is essential.
Flares
“And this,” she said, fingering her greenstone Māori necklace with the thick key, a gift from Vincent when he returned from New Zealand and asked her to marry him. “Because emotional survival matters too. We all need a charm or something. I’ve turned into a prepper, and preppers know about emotional needs too.”
She stopped lining up her items and looked out the window at the dark silhouettes of trees lit by moonlight. She tried to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. A few months ago, she’d read an article about an inmate who died of dehydration as he’d been screaming for water. This had led to a short obsession with reading about death by dehydration. Dehydration death, she knew now, was torture. Cells shrink, organs fail, delirium sets in. It’s terribly painful. And the presence of water didn’t always solve the problem. Eighty percent of global diseases were waterborne; a child died of water-related illness every twenty seconds. She wished she could forget facts like that, but she couldn’t.
“I brought Vincent water in his moment of death,” she murmured, staring outside, listening intently for any sound that would signal danger. “A glass of water that didn’t save him, but it saved you, didn’t it? You wouldn’t have made it much longer. Nothing here would have saved Vincent,” she whispered. “But I saved you.”
As if in response, the dog got up, walked to her bowl to lap water, then walked back, turned in a circle, and sat down with a thump, and so Ammalie hugged her, and took a big, wavery breath. She was okay. They were okay. If a man came, the dog would start barking, and she had her pepper spray and knife at hand.
“Travel Pouchy is smallest and is for my backpack,” she whispered, holding it up, needing desperately to be touching things, to be speaking. “Duffel Pouchy is for my duffel bag, and contains not only a first aid kit but travel comfort items, such as eyedrops, dental floss, tweezers—things you won’t die without, but which make life drastically more comfortable. Okay, I’m feeling better now; it’s passing.” She scratched the dog’s neck, could feel the calmness return to her voice and heart. “And for the grand finale, this bucket is called the Survival Bucket and is the most important thing to grab in a moment of need, okay? You could survive with this thing for a while.” Just touching the plastic bucket made her feel better. Having the dog around made her feel better. Having Fluffiest Red beside her made her feel better. Having walls around her made her feel better. Because out there was real danger.
“See how ready I am? See how safe we are? I’m going to name you Lady Shackleton, because he survived and that’s the best survival story known to humankind, and Endurance, his ship, was just found. We all know his wife probably prepped the trip—women do all the work! And they didn’t get to explore—what bullshit! But times have changed, it’s time for women; and we’re better explorers, because we’re not off to ransack some country or plant a flag. No. We’re seeking wisdom and internal truths in addition to the physical journey. Different plotlines all together. So don’t worry, we’re going to be okay. I hope no asshole is looking for you. My guess is not. I bet he’s lazy, and I bet he’s a coward. Did he have a car? Was he hiking? Does he live nearby? I myself am not going to sleep very well tonight. That I admit. But don’t worry, I have it covered. I’ll pepper-spray the hell out of him.”
She buried her face in the dog’s soft fluff again and started to cry, and the dog licked her hand, and although this was all more than she’d bargained for, at least, well, she had a story. An event. An interesting occurrence about something she did. And when was the last time she’d really had one of those?
CHAPTER 5
Lady stood up and yawned in Ammalie’s face, and so she woke to rows of canine teeth in her view, dog breath in her nose. With unmistakable and universal body language, Lady conveyed she wanted out, which sent her heart thumping as she sat up. What if that man was out there? Ammalie jogged from window to window, looking out, and then opened the door cautiously and with pepper spray in her hand. The man had been in her dreams all night, a dark shadowy looming figure that kept her awake during the darkest hours. She listened with every fiber of her being, but now the sun was lighting the mountains, and soon Lady was back of her own accord, panting and tail-wagging. Ammalie looked out at the forest one last time, then bolted the door when she closed it.
Then Lady was following her around as she made rice for the dog and a big pot of vegetable soup for herself. She cleaned the kitchen so that it was as she’d found it, except for the extra soup in the fridge and freezer. Only then did she have the idea to look for dog food, and sure enough, in the hall closet she found a lidded bucket. She gave some of the kibble to Lady and stretched and journaled and waited for the police. They’d called her, they’d triangulate her cell, and although what she was doing didn’t seem that wrong, she supposed breaking and entering was a big deal to some.
In the afternoon, she went outside to see if she could chop wood—there was a woodshed with an ax, but after lifting the ax a few times and having it waver around, she had to snort at her lack of strength. Plus, of course, chopping would create noise. Instead she resorted to stacking the existing wood more neatly. She’d try to leave this place a little better than she found it. Lady followed her around, calmer than she thought a young dog should be, and indeed, Ammalie felt calmer than she thought she should be. Surely, the police would come. But until then, she’d continue on. So be it.
There were still many hours to pass in a big long Day Two of her New Vida and the rest of her life, so she went back inside and climbed a steep set of stairs to look in the loft, where there were twin beds and a closet, and in the closet were some tubs marked Art Supplies, Jewelry-Making Supplies, Camping Supplies, Flytying Supplies, and Misc, and it made her happy to know that everyone, everywhere, made their own essential kits of various sorts. She was taking down the jewelry-making supplies when she heard a car door slam.
“No,” she said, as if that would make it go away, and then she hugged Lady to her and said, “Shhhh, shhhh, don’t woof, it’s the police or the bad guy, maybe they’ll go away. They can’t just walk into locked houses, after all. That’s unlawful entry. But oh glory, fuck, fuck, fuck.” The reality of it all was hitting her, and she sank to the floor of the closet to hug the dog. Someone was opening a car door; she could hear music coming from the car. Oh, god, what had her plans been? And police don’t play music, do they?
Didn’t she have a Plan A and Plan B? Plan A was to state her excuse and run past someone and speed away. Plan B was to hide. Or no, Plan B was to surrender. And if the person was bad, she supposed Plan C would be to fight. But with what? Jewelry-making supplies?
She could hear that the person was still at the car since the music was still going. Fine. Fuck it. She ran down the stairs, followed by Lady, grabbed everything she’d placed by the door, and ran upstairs right at the moment that someone fiddled with the key and lock and entered the house. She slipped herself and the dog into the closet, panting, hugging her things to her. Lady didn’t seem to be inclined to bark at all—in fact, she hadn’t barked since the barking that drew Ammalie’s attention in the first place. Maybe her throat was sore. She was, however, content to lie down and put her head on Ammalie’s lap when Ammalie sat crisscross on the closet floor in the corner.
Ammalie’s heart was thumping—shhh, Thumper, shhh—and she put her hand to the greenstone necklace. Oh, god, what was she doing? Oh, god, what would jail be like? Oh, god, this hiding strategy was worse because now it was clear she was purposefully trying to evade the law! She had to immediately pee, and before she could stop herself, she did, which Lady gently sniffed. She looked down at her wet crotch and the dog’s nose as she listened to some shuffling downstairs.
“Don’t bark,” she breathed into Lady’s fur. “Don’t bark.” She breathed in to the count of seven, then out to the count of seven—or was it supposed to be seven and four? Or four and seven?—and tried to think it through:
She’d wiped down the tub, so there would be no residual water.
She’d rubbed the bathmat to erase footmarks.
She’d left the kitchen clean, no evidence of food, except the containers of soup in the freezer and fridge. All trash had been taken out to her car, and the car was behind the house and in a pocket of trees. Only one small window faced that direction, north, so the car was not visible from the house, and a new dusting of snow had fallen. There were two containers of water and food on the floor for the dog, but they were by the trash can and maybe out of sight?
Then she heard humming.
A woman!
She felt the energy notch down an octave. A woman, a woman, a woman! Thank god! She likely wouldn’t be killed. Women should run the world was her first thought, and her second was, Hollywood was definitely one of the Great Offenders, right up there with first aid kit makers and travel-video makers, because people never peed their pants in movies. She had even peed when she’d found out Vincent had died. And why didn’t she put a bucket in the closet for just that purpose—she hadn’t thought it through! And water! And some food! Why hadn’t she prepared for this scenario?
Calm down, Thumper, calm down. She put her head on Lady’s shoulders. There was more humming, the sound of items being plonked into a trash can, so, okay, she’d run downstairs, surprise the woman, apologize, run out of the house with the dog, get to her car, and drive quickly. Keep driving and never be found. All would be well.
She felt with her fingertips in the dark closet to make sure she had the keys, her purse, her backpack with her laptop and journal and first aid kit. She’d miss Fluffiest Red, but she’d just take the backpack and purse.
Then she smelled salvation.
