Dogs by Nancy Kress Page B

exhausted that the words had trouble rising past her lips. “I just wanted to make sure that you heard about the dogs and don’t go out. Did you hear, Mr. Anselm?”
    His wrinkled old forehead wrinkled even more above the filmy, unfocused blue eyes. “Heard what, my dear?”
    â€œSome kind of plague is affecting dogs, Mr. Anselm. Nobody knows what it is. Captain hasn’t snapped at you or anything, has he?”
    â€œCaptain? No, of course not. He’s too well-trained for anything like that, isn’t he, ol’ boy?”
    Cami nodded, even though he couldn’t see her. Seeing-eye dogs were superbly trained. And Mr. Anselm hardly ever left the house anyway. She wanted to say more, but she was just too tired. She managed, “Take care, Mr. Anselm,” staggered to her own door, and let herself in.
    For just a second, as she pushed open the door, Cami felt a frisson of fear: What if Belle …But the collie met her at the door, tail wagging, gentle old eyes shining with pleasure that Cami was home.
    In a blur of exhaustion Cami put down food and water for the dog, took off her scrubs, and fell into bed in her underwear. She hadn’t taken Belle out…how could she take her out, anyway? Let Belle pee, and even shit, in a corner of the kitchen, as she’d had to do once or twice before when Cami had worked a double shift. Cami could clean it up later. Right now sleep, sleep, sleep …
    But just before she crashed, she pulled herself up off the duvet and closed the bedroom door, leaving Belle on the other side. Just in case.

» 13
    Tessa, who’d spent all of Thursday and much of Friday morning unpacking boxes in her new kitchen and bedroom, looked around her living room, which still seemed to be full of boxes. How did she own this much stuff? She’d given away, it seemed to her, entire roomfuls of stuff before she left D.C., calling the Goodwill and Salvation Army to haul away truckloads of chairs and books and frying pans and throw pillows. Yet here was all this stuff.
    It wasn’t the most restful site for meditation, but Tessa nonetheless unfolded her mat. She hadn’t meditated this morning; it would make a nice break now. She opened the window to the bracing cold air, faced the brass statue, and sat on her heels, hands on knees, spine straight and relaxed. Breathe…
    The doorbell rang. Minette started her insane barking, and Tessa picked her up as she opened the door. Minette was always thrilled to see anyone. A visit from the FedEx man could send her into orgasm.
    â€œHi, I’m Pioneer Cable,” said an impossibly young workman. “You had a one P.M. call for a new cable hook-up, but I got started early today so if it’s okay with you…”
    â€œFine,” Tessa said. “Want some coffee?”
    â€œNo, thanks, ma’am. I’m sort of in a hurry. Running behind schedule.”
    Tessa left him with his time contradictions in the living room, tethered the yipping Minette to the kitchen table, and made herself coffee. Then she checked her email for the third time today. One of Salah’s unknown correspondents had answered her: [email protected].

    Dear Tessa,
    I write in English for your convenience. I have heard not of Salah’s death and it is very great shock to me. We have shared rooms at the Sorbonne, perhaps you know this. Also I have known him since a long time, when we were boys in Tunis. I am very sad to hear of his death. How has this occurred? Please tell me, if it is not too painful for you.
    I have written Salah last year because our classmate has written to me to ask for Salah’s email address. I have written to Salah first to see if this is okay for him. Salah said yes, so I have given the address to our classmate, Richard Ebenfield, American. Richard writes not any Arabic. Neither Salah nor I have seen Richard since many, many years.
    I live now in London. Salah and I have promised to write to