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Chapter Two

Friday March 14, 2008

8:40pm

Sandy was as plain and Midwestern as could be: a modest spec of northern Indiana surrounded by fields of melting snow, home to seventeen thousand souls plus Jenner, the World's Largest Goat, a fifty-foot, four-legged piece of fiberglass who grazed in Sandy's charming little town park. The town's reputation rested on its high school basketball program and its ability to punch well above its weight in alcohol consumption—it's not like there was much else in town to do, many “Sandinavians" would say.

When Tyson rolled into Sandy, the town was just warming up. Sidewalks belonged to the smokers and the bar-hoppers, while some of Sandy Varsity High's finest carried out their Friday rites, blasting subwoofers and shouting obscenities out open windows. Tyson kept his own windows rolled shut and lightly toed the pedals of his 944 from one traffic light to the next, sighing and shaking his head at each red light.

I can't wait to see her again.

The fox's scent still hung in the air about him, as did the sense of wondrous disbelief.

The house Tyson had spent most of his life in sat alongside a fairway of the Open Prairie Country Club. Like other houses along the public course, it was large and well-kept: a split-level, ranch-style home with gray shudders on white siding. A porch light's glow stretched over the spacious, snow-covered yard, and more light shone through an open picture window above the attached two-car garage. Tyson stopped his car next to a Silverado in the driveway and ran to the front door.

“Can someone open the garage?" he hollered up a barren entryway.

Over distant television noise, he heard his mother's bark. “Hold on!"

Tyson hurried back to his car, glancing at his phone to see no new messages, and as he stashed his cellphone the garage door creaked away. He crept his Porsche up alongside his mother's SUV, leaving the Porsche's nose a foot shy of a long-neglected workbench, then got out and grabbed his backpack from the rear hatch.

He had hardly set foot on the dining room's vinyl floor when he was snapped up in a tight hug, perfume and dark fur overpowering his senses.

“Jesus, Mom," said Tyson, exasperated at the rare embrace.

With a tight squeeze, Patricia Spriggs stepped back and studied the son she hadn't seen in months. Tyson hadn't made a habit of coming home from college. Christmas had been his last stay.

“You got taller again," Patricia determined.

Tyson set his bag on the floor and tried to wipe the sent of perfume from his nose. “I think you're just getting shorter."

“Har-har."

Aside from the obvious characteristics of a German shepherd, the appearances of the mother and son held little in common. Tyson stood a slender five ten, with more brown than black to his fur, while his mother just barely broke the five-and-a-half-feet mark and showed an entirely black coat, coinciding with dark eyes and black hair cut in a short, layered do.

“We had dinner already, but leftovers are in the fridge," Patricia told her son, frowning.

“That's fine. I ate too," Tyson replied, quickly adding, “So, what's everybody up to?"

“Nessa and Dad are watching something."

“Bell's out?"

“Of course."

Tyson shook his head, grinning. Bella, the elder of his two sisters, had inherited the spot of family troublemaker. Maybe exceeded it. Definitely had. “Well, I'm gonna go say 'hi' to them."

Tyson climbed the short flight of steps to the TV room and glanced at a large flat screen from which the brownish-yellow of an NBA court radiated.

“Hey, Ty," a soft voice said from the couch.

Anessa, baby of the family, sat alone at the sofa, her legs crossed and her dark-brown hair tied back in a ponytail. Like her brother and father, she wore the tan-and-black coat typical of the German shepherd. Tyson had always considered Anessa the normal one in the family—a little too polite for a thirteen year old if anything.

“Hey," he said before turning. “Hey, Dad."

Pasted to a leather recliner beside the couch, Roger Spriggs shot his son a slow nod. Everything about him, from the dull-brown eyes to the slight rearwards tilt of his head against the recliner, reeked of exhaustion. “Hey."

“Long day?"

“Another one in the books."

“So, is this today's game?" Tyson asked, joining his sister on the couch.

Anessa scooted aside to give her brother more space. “Dad DVR'd it." Her voice dropped to a whisper. “And Mom was mad that you missed dinner."

Tyson could only shrug. “I'll be here for a whole week of dinners—maybe even lunches. Why are you here on a Friday night though? Shouldn't you be nerding out with your friends or something?"

Anessa kept her voice to a mutter. “I was going to, but Mom and Bell got into a big fight."

“No way," said Tyson, and he exchanged smirks with his sister.

* * *

11:05

The Pacers would lose to the Mavericks in the end, but none of the Spriggs caught the final score. Roger and Anessa were asleep in their rooms, Patricia was at the computer behind the sofa, consumed by her email, and Tyson had stretched out on his old bed to idly page through an automotive magazine. Before turning out his lights, the eighteen-year-old shepherd checked his phone one last time and changed the name of his newest contact from “Ms rokem" to “Elena."

* * *

Saturday March 15, 2008

7:28am

The usual Saturday morning at the Spriggs house was quiet, a time of peace where the calmer side of the family rose for early breakfast and a head start on the day. Tyson, a tired, toothy grin on his face and a gorgeous fox in his thoughts, rolled from his covers and wandered downstairs to butter himself a bagel and shoot the shit with his father who kept his muzzle behind a copy of the Lewisburg Informer, a regional paper printed up in Hollins, Indiana. Anessa was next to make her way downstairs, and she quietly listened to the work, school and sports talk until finishing her cereal and scampering upstairs. Per usual, Patricia didn't leave the master bedroom 'til the morning's last hour, leaving only one of the Spriggs cast to snooze the entire morning away.

Tyson was showered, dressed and kicked back on the couch when Bella emerged, dragging her feet down the carpet of the hall and grunting a lifeless “Hi" as she slipped into the upstairs bathroom. Tyson snickered after her and turned his eyes back to the television.

Being back home was making him restless. Being home and being so far from someone—a harsh come down from the prior day's high. By noon, the only thing he could think of was calling Elena. But he didn't want to seem desperate. When he could take no more of the couch potato act, he went through the contacts on his cellphone, checking to see who else was around town for the week. The first response asked if he wanted to go for a drive.

* * *

12:42pm

“So, how's shit going, dude?"

“Pretty good, I guess," Tyson said from the passenger seat. “How about you? Liking work?"

“Fuck no. But it's alright."

Tyson laughed at the immediate contradiction and looked at the mouse who gripped the Porsche's steering wheel. “Yeah?"

“Yeah. Just me and a bunch of dumbasses."

Tyson didn't like the idea of other people driving his car, had let only one other person take the 944's wheel since he had signed the title. That person was Calvin Mccullough, fellow Sandy Varsity High '07 grad—but just barely. He and the scruffy brown rodent went back to a morning in the seventh grade, the discovery of a mutual love of cars, a discovery which led to many hours together: playing games, watching movies, eventually working on their very own cars. They hadn't spoken much since Tyson had started college.

“That sucks, dog," replied Tyson.

“Liking NISU then?"

“Yeah, dude. Some people in the dorms are retarded, but ya know."

“Tons of chicks?"

Doing all he could to keep his face neutral, Tyson simply shrugged. “Well, it's college dude."

“That's the one reason I wish I'd gone to school, dude," laughed Calvin.

The mouse had followed in his father's footsteps—straight to the floor of the same factory. His occasional texts hinted at a dull, monotonous existence. But Tyson could appreciate his friend's simple and easy-going nature, and as they struck out on the highways surrounding Sandy, the boys launched into a conversation of cars, girls and good times passed.

* * *

Tuesday March 18, 2008

10:20am

“I'm calling her today."

Tyson had roused from a terribly-long sleep to find the house empty, his sisters at school and his parents at work, his patience spent to the last fumes. After fighting free of twisted bedsheets and soaking his fur in the upstairs shower, the young shepherd sat around the house, ate cereal and watched _Sports Center—_unable to shake a certain vixen from his mind as he killed time.

At eleven he called the fox from the comfort of his bed.

The phone rang once. Twice. Thrice. Tyson's hope dwindled by the fourth ring. An automated voice began prompting him to leave a message. He frowned, thinking of what to say.

“Please leave a message af—"

“Hello?"

Tyson jumped when the fox's throaty voice cut into the line. “Hey! You answered," he said stupidly.

“I should've warned you that I'm awful when it comes to this phone."

“I'm just glad you're there," said Tyson.

Stretching out over his sheets once again, the shepherd asked how his professor was doing, and they soon settled into talk of their mundane days past and plans for the days approaching.

“—and my daughter is planning to stay over on Friday," Elena concluded.

Tyson took a moment to think, then slowly inquired, “So, on Thursday you're free?"

“Yes?" replied the fox, her voice carrying a suspicious note.

“Do you wanna meet up then—maybe for some lunch?"

A pause wilted Tyson's ears.

“I'd love to."

The shepherd grinned, ears erect, and clenched a fist. “You have to pick this time," he hastily demanded. “Where we go, I mean."

A soft chuckle came through the line. “Okay," said Elena. “You'll have to let me think on it. Can I call you later?"

“Definitely!" exclaimed Tyson, bouncing up from his mattress. “I'll talk to ya later?"

“You will. Bye, Tyson."

“Bye, Elena."

And so, his restlessness only brought to an irrepressible boil, Tyson stowed his phone in his pocket and made to put a few dozen more miles on the 944's odometer. Thursday, an eternity away.