Gravestone by Travis Thrasher

search the kitchen cabinets. I even find myself opening one above the counter, and then I stop myself when I realize that dogs can’t fly.
    Maybe they can in Solitary.
    “Midnight!”
    I go outside on the deck that is cleared but still a bit slippery, and I call out her name. It’s getting dark. I scan the road below.
    For a second I begin to think bad thoughts. Awful thoughts.
    I picture Jocelyn.
    No please no.
    I begin to hear the thoughts. The judging, condemning words. I see the pointed finger. The eyes of shame and blame.
    “Midnight!”
    The ten minutes feel like my body being stretched out ten more inches. My hands and legs are attached to separate chains, and they’re being pulled separate ways.
    If she got out and roamed away I might never find her again.
    I feel sick. Really physically sick.
    I shout her name over and over like a crazy person, and in fact I’m shouting so loud I don’t hear the noise until I stop to take a breath.
    A scratching sound.
    It’s the last gasp of a dying dog before she departs.
    Then I hear a little whimper of a bark.
    That’s outside. No, wait, it’s inside.
    I go back inside through the open door. The scratching is coming from the kitchen.
    Then I realize that it’s coming from the back door. I grab the handle, and it turns—something it doesn’t do when it’s locked.
    Dogs can’t open and close doors.
    When I open it, I see the black little Shih Tzu standing there wagging her tail and looking up at me with a mischievous face. I pick her up and bring her face to mine.
    She’s fine, besides feeling a little cold. As she licks my face, I realize that she’s also licking tears.

16. Don’t
     
    Chris.
    The voice hovers, yet isn’t audible. It’s in my head, in my dream. I open my eyes to familiar darkness, to familiar silence. I move and sit on the edge of the narrow mattress—one day I’m bound to turn and fall right off of it. I sit and wait.
    Chris.
    It’s Jocelyn’s voice, crashing in like a wave at high tide. I’m half asleep still, my eyelids shutting and staying shut, then opening again.
    I need to talk to you.
    I get up and walk down the stairs. Somewhere in the darkness at the foot of my bed, Midnight must surely be wondering what I’m doing. I wouldn’t be able to tell her if she asked.
    The steps creak, but creaks can’t awaken the dead or the drunk. Actually, I’d bet that I’m more likely to talk to the dead. Ritualistic killing is one thing, but bad vodka is another.
    You’re growing so cynical and so mean.
    It’s her voice, but it’s really mine warped into the memory of her words. It has to be. I’m awake, and I know what’s going on.
    You don’t have a clue.
    I stand for a second, wondering if I’m supposed to go out. She sounds like she’s outside on the deck, outside in the cold night.
    As I reach for the handle, I feel a gust of wind, and I shiver.
    Get a coat, stupid. And some shoes.
    So I do.
    Then I go outside.
    The air isn’t just cold. It’s hard and empty. It’s so cold that it’s hard to breathe, hard to think.
    I can see the deck and the dropping terrain underneath me just fine in the light of the liquid moon. I don’t see a ghostly apparition hovering anywhere. I don’t see someone flying on a broom. I don’t see anything unusual.
    Except the shadow of the approaching figure.
    And I turn and see Jocelyn walking toward me.
    “Jocelyn?” I ask.
    Her face hides under a fur-lined hood, the smile impossible not to see. A scarf covers her neck, her face so beautiful and angelic. I guess ghosts or visions or dream dates still have to wear warm clothes. Wouldn’t want to catch a cold.
    You’re not dreaming.
    I’m so cold and the voice sounds so real and maybe I’m not dreaming, maybe I’m really outside talking to myself or whoever this is.
    It’s me.
    I go to touch her, but she pulls back.
    Don’t. Just—just look at me and listen.
    “You’re so beautiful.”
    Listen.
    “What is this?”
    There is a place that