Reunion by Sharon Sala

water.
    Something rumbled on the street above him, and he slapped his hands to his ears, unaware that the noise he heard was nothing more than a truck barreling over the viaduct in which he was standing. Down here, below the surface of the street, it sounded as if the world were coming apart. A quick shaft of pain split the thought in his head, but it disappeared as quickly as the noise that had brought it.
    After that he began to walk faster, trying to find a place that was dryer and quieter…. And no noise…there must be no noise.
    A whimper came out of the darkness ahead, and he stopped, his head cocked to one side, listening for a repeat of the sound. When it came again, he shrank back against the concrete wall of the viaduct, shivering with fright. He was no longer alone.
    Moments later a small dog appeared at his feet, and for the first time since the start of his odyssey, he knew joy. Unmindful of the running water in which he was standing, he dropped to his knees. The dog, sensing no harm, licked the hand the man offered. Even after the man lifted the dog into his arms, cradling it among the limp roses, it made no attempt to struggle. Instead, it seemed satisfied within the confines of the man’s grasp.
    The dog was soaked to the skin and muddy to boot, but the man didn’t care. He drew comfort from the touch of another living thing. Happy that he was no longer alone, he continued his journey toward the faint light now appearing at the other end of the tunnel.
    As he walked out into the open, he lifted his head, sniffing the air and taking small comfort in the fact that the rain had stopped. The dog wiggled to be put down. Reluctant to let it go, he held it a little bit tighter. A large puddle beneath a nearby streetlight mirrored their passing as the man began to move.
    Six blocks over, a forty-three-year-old accountant named Theodore Russell was stomping his way through the neighborhood park, dodging puddles and, not for the first time in their married lives, cursing his wife, Evie, for her dog’s stupidity.
    At least once a month Choo Choo managed to get lost. There were constant reports about animals who could find their way home across hundreds, sometimes even thousands, of miles. Choo Choo continued to get lost within the block on which it lived. It was his opinion that Choo Choo had the homing instincts of a fart—once having escaped, it would lose its point of origin, yet never get far enough away to ignore.
    As Theodore walked beneath a stand of trees, water from the recent rainfall dripped off of the leaves and down the back of his collar. He shivered.
    “That does it,” he muttered, digging into his pocket for the dog whistle. “I’m tired. Five more minutes, and if I can’t find Choo Choo by then, Evie can get herself another dog.”
    Just as he was lifting the whistle to his lips, he heard a rustling in the bushes behind him. He paused and turned. The faint glow from a nearby security light was barely enough for him to distinguish shrub from shadow.
    “Choo Choo? Is that you, boy?”
    He stared into the darkness, hoping to catch a glimpse of shaggy white fur, but when no dog appeared, he stuck the whistle in his mouth and blew.
    Suddenly he was enveloped in a roar of great rage. Horrified, he froze, unaware he was still blowing the whistle. His hesitation cost him his life. Moments later, the roar visualized into a man of great height who came out of the bushes, blindly flailing his arms before him.
    Theodore saw the blow coming and threw up his arms in self-defense. He should have run instead. A massive fist caught him square in the mouth, snapping his neck on impact and knocking the dog whistle down his throat.
    Seconds later, Choo Choo came scurrying out of the bushes. The man on the ground carried a familiar scent of home. Choo Choo whined and then began licking at Theodore’s face.
    The other man swayed where he stood, his hands clasped against his ears as the last echoes of pain faded