Daimones
Ghost Town

...To the Teeth

From the border with Switzerland, the road turned into a long straight line until it reached the Cornavin rail station in downtown Geneva. The new tramway lines had been inaugurated only the previous summer, and streetcars now connected passengers from the CERN laboratory to the city; traffic had improved considerably. The Swiss road authority had also built a tunnel going under the satellite city of Meyrin. This alone cut the trip time to the center by not less than fifteen minutes, and everything had been completed on time and on budget. Didn’t matter now.

I did not want to risk going through the tunnel that might have been blocked by car wreckage. Instead, I chose to drive in the middle section devoted to streetcars to cross Meyrin without troubles.

To reach the border I avoided the expressway and opted to drive through the village. It had been two weeks since that gruesome February morning and degradation had become visible. Nothing spectacular, just weeds surfacing wherever they could. Quickly, efficiently, and spreading undisturbed.

Vegetation was not trimmed, of course, and leaves and debris accumulated in various spots along with loose pieces of paper and garbage. I suspected animals were responsible for that, probably escaped domestic ones that had searched through trash bins, contributing to the general feeling of a place that had been forsaken.

I kept radio contact with Mary but I almost lost the signal when I approached the border. A car had smashed right against the custom booth. The impact brought it down and part of the large canopy had collapsed, but it left a narrow passage free. I slowed down and went through. Right after, I realized I could have simply crossed the border in the other lane, unobstructed. What was I afraid of, a fine?

“Mary, I can’t hear you anymore. I’ll call you in a sec.”

I stopped the car in the middle of the road and in front of the main entrance to the CERN laboratory. I felt a sense of utter desolation. Sickening, but I was getting used to it. “Mary, I’ll stay in touch about every twenty minutes or so. I’ll keep you posted.” In any case, she should not be worried as I didn’t expect to replace company in Geneva and I would be on my toes, regardless.

A streetcar was at rest at the CERN stop, the first one of the line, or the last if you were coming from the city center. I drove by slowly. No corpses that I could see. I accelerated and proceeded toward downtown and my ultimate destination.

I wanted to go to the gun store first thing. Joe’s pistol would have been enough for self-protection in normal cirmunstances, but we were not living in normal circumstances. Both Mary and Annah needed to have their own gun.

Everything was still confused in my mind. I admit I was being guided by catastrophic movies and the behavior of survivors in Hollywood blockbusters. Yet, I was now the one living in my own blockbuster, and a very real one, too.

I reached Meyrin. A few cars had crashed against walls or other obstacles, and I saw a few rotten fellows at the tram stop. People used to drive slowly on those inner roads so there were no spectacular accidents. Whatever happened to us in this part of the world had happened early, in the wee hours of the morning. I couldn’t imagine how it must be in other cities if everyone had been caught on a busy weekday.

After Meyrin, the road overpassed the highway to Lausanne. I stopped on impulse and got out. I never heard birds or crows before during the day in town because the everlasting hum of traffic drowned out their calls. Now there was none of that; no artificial noises, no human buzz. I reached the railing and a disturbing scene greeted me. It was similar to what I had seen on the expressway but this time crows and other scavengers were feasting.

Some of the crashed cars had broken windows, opened and contorted doors, the bodies within exposed to the elements. Nature is very efficient at breaking down human remains. Luckily, I was not so close to see the maggots, beetles, ants and wasps that were surely participating in the feeding frenzy, but I imagined them. Still, I shouldn’t get too upset as it was a natural process bound to happen in a similar way everywhere, at that very moment. Soon there would be nothing left for animals to feast on.

I went back to the car and kept driving until I reached downtown. Geneva was a city of ghosts, home to an even larger cemetery than the village near home. Hard to believe that almost two hundred thousand people were dead there.

The thought overwhelmed me. At the first large intersection in town, I stopped the car. Lowering the window, I blew the horn loud and often. The screaming sound bounced off the buildings. I stepped out but kept blowing the car’s horn hoping for someone to show up, to see a face at a window, some sign of life.

Nothing. No one. I was alone, and I screamed. “Is anyone there? Where is everyone?” Geneva did not answer me.

Slowly, I got into the driver’s seat again and resumed my journey. I continued down the street and turned left at the Notre Dame church onto rue de Lausanne. Traffic lights worked though I didn't bother to stop and the cameras flashed each time I ran a red light. After the first one, which triggered my reflexes to brake, I thought that actually could have been a way to leave a signature. From then on, I did it on purpose. Who knows, if anyone was alive and still checked those cameras, I was leaving proof that not everyone in Geneva was dead.

I looked for signs of recent human presence; anything suggesting someone was still alive in town. I didn’t know really what to look for. In any case, whatever those signs could be, I had seen none. For the most part, the streets were empty, though crows and other birds were now more present. Encouraged by the lack of any human presence, they were slowly taking possession of the place. I saw a few dogs, alone or in a pack, but they kept away, never approaching the car. I did not try to get closer to them either.

The gun shop was not far now and I called Mary to reassure her everything was fine. Right after that, I arrived at “Armurerie du Lac.”

The windows were intact and displayed a multitude of blades, a ninja costume, knives of various kinds, a range of Japanese samurai swords, curved katanas, and a nice group of Glock pistols. I was not a gun expert but I had found the right place.

I parked the car on the sidewalk in front of the shop, took the pistol and got out. I glanced around and listened for any possible noise. Nothing, all quiet. An empty town can be quite oppressive. Geneva weighed heavily on my senses and seemed almost quizzical. Buildings’ windows looked straight at me, as if they were hundreds of accusing eyes asking, “Who are you, why are you here? Why are you alive?”

I tried to push open the glass doors to no avail. What would happen if I were to break in? The alarm would protest and scream against the intrusion and I would replace it difficult to shop with a siren blaring at me. I have never done anything like that, but I didn’t have many options.

At first, I thought about shooting at the doors but then decided it was better to ram them. I backed the car up to the entrance then pushed the pedal down and rammed it. The entrance shattered and the doors went off their hinges with a slam. I ended up half inside the shop. The alarm went off. Loudly.

My heart was pumping heavily. Definitely, I was not a burglar and had to breathe deeply for a while before I was able to get out of the car. My boots crackled on the broken glass and the alarm scream pierced my ears. I located the siren close to the ceiling, on the right corner. I took the pistol, aimed carefully, and fired a couple of shots.

Silence again, even though my ears buzzed. I examined the place. The shop seemed to have everything I needed, at least at first glance. Hunting rifles were aligned vertically behind the counter but were of no use to me now. Perhaps later, if I needed to hunt for game. Various locked glass cabinets contained handguns of various types, including pistols and revolvers. This is what I was looking for.

On a pedestal, the famous .44 Magnum. Behind it, a few pictures of Inspector Callahan from the “Dirty Harry” movies. An inscription stated it was “The Most Powerful Handgun in the World” and a paraphrased Harry quote–“Go ahead. Make YOUR day,”–was followed by the inflated price. A moot point now.

That Magnum tempted me, would have been like having a cannon in my hand. But first things first, I thought. I needed pistols light enough for Mary and Annah yet with considerable impact power, nonetheless. Unfortunately, there was no clerk to ask for help or to guide me. I had to read all those terse descriptions if I wanted any information about the various models. My eyes fell on a “Glock 36 Cal. 45 AUTO. Compact and powerful.” Two terms that fit perfectly.

Reading further, the description said: “Slim and powerluf.” Yes, the note wrongly spelled it...“powerluf.” How many typos were left trailing behind? How many wrongs will not have a chance anymore to be made right? How many cries of “I am sorry.” burned on lips in the last moments, forever untold, forever burning.

I kept reading. “Fits to the hand of any user. The new GLOCK SLIMLINE presents grip ergonomics of the next dimension.” I got four of those and, with excitement, I collected thousands of rounds. Boxes after boxes.

I also found two Berettas. Smaller than the Glocks—maybe be better for Annah? I had no idea. We would have to see which one she handled best. She had done well with Joe’s pistol, and seemed to learn fast. She could decide for herself.

Next I found two Skorpion VZ61s. I had seen those in movies. I guessed they would be a nice addition to the family arsenal. The sign said it could use either a short 10-round magazine or a 20-round capacity magazine. I grabbed a large number of the latter.

After storing all those boxes in the car, I took the time to inspect the Skorpions. They felt so light, like lethal feathers. Why were we so skillful in creating perfection for killing other human beings? I found the fire mode selector, a lever installed on the left side above the pistol grip. It had three settings: "0," "1,"and "20." I presumed the numbers stood for weapon safe, semi-automatic and full automatic mode. I set them both on “0.” I would prove my assumption later at home.

Home. It was close to an hour since the last time I had spoken to Mary. I took the phone and dialed her number. Mary answered immediately. “Dan. Where are you? Oh my God, I was worried. Are you okay? Why didn’t you call before? You said twenty minutes.”

I had acted like a shopper under the influence of a Harrods’s sale virus. A tidal wave of guilt rose, engulfing my thoughts like debris tossed around by conflicting flows. Finally, I uttered an apology. “I’m sorry. It will never happen again.”

I told her where I was and how I had found the town completely deserted. There was no evidence that others were alive but that couldn’t be conclusive. Others... I had only driven on the main roads, then straight to the gun shop. Surely there had to be folks like us, somewhere. Why not? But I didn’t sound convincing even to myself, and Mary did not comment.

“Anyway, I think I’ve found what I was looking for. How are you both doing?”

“We're fine. Just come home.”

“I won’t be long.”

I sat on the bumper of the car for a moment, and memory brought Mary’s voice asking, “What’s going on, sweet pea?” Sweet indeed, like the fragrance of jasmine in our garden, carried by the evening breeze.

***

Days had passed by uneventfully since that terrible February night, and new routines had set themselves in place. Mary and Annah checked the Internet, and browsed the countryside with binoculars while I had been busy with visits to the mall and bringing food to the dogs, trying to win their trust. The girls also took notes on what they saw in various places in order to distinguish if anything changed in the scenery from one day to the next. Accountants for signs of life. Their checkbook remained miserably empty. Nothing was ever different. Ever.

The world was changing, of course. Spring had sprung and nature gave the impression of not caring a bit about the fate of humans. To tell the truth, it was gorgeous, better than any previous seasons we remembered.

Visibility was amazing. Even taking into account that Geneva was not famous for being a city invaded by smog, two weeks of no human presence had had a significant effect. The air was perfumed with the first blossoming flowers. It was painful to notice how better off nature was without us, and cheerful she seemed to have gotten rid of the planet’s major destructive force.

I crushed those thoughts as if they were ants making a run for the last piece of cake at a picnic, ruining the day. I resumed searching the shop for whatever could be of help to us.

I grabbed some vests with multiple pockets, about the right sizes for the three of us, and some kind of military boots and rucksacks. I handled some machetes and decided to get them, too, just because. I also found proper ear protection for shooting practice. They would replace the earplugs we had been using so far in our gun exercises. Especially now, with the new guns, practice was bound to increase in frequency.

In a second adjacent room, I found a real arsenal, a large choice of military stuff and I couldn’t decide at first. Honestly, I had very little clue what to go for. I searched for what I knew from blockbusters memories; I found a couple of Kalashnikov AK-103 with 30-round magazines. I loaded the trunk with enough to supply an army.

I thought about Mary’s reaction; she would think I’d gone crazy. Maybe I had, maybe we were all, each of us, mad in our own distinct way. Unable to see it ourselves, nor did we have anyone to tell us.

Just before leaving the room, I saw out of the corner of my eye a name I knew from my childhood: Benelli.

It was a brand for motorcycles and hunting rifles, too. My uncle was a hunter and he had a couple Benelli’s. He loved them. Beautiful guns but I knew they could be deadly.

On a hunting trip, he killed my mom’s Golden Retriever with one single shot, point blank. He got furious the dog did not obey him on the spot; at least this is what he told everyone when he got back home with game but no dog.

He destroyed the poor animal with one shot, and my mom’s heart, too. She always remembered how pain crippled her when she knew, and how she felt the pain physically, squirming through her like earthworms on the ground after a heavy rain. I think this is why I never went hunting with my uncle when I reached the ‘right age,’ as he used to say. When is the right age to start killing?

The Benelli in front of me, though, was not a hunting rifle; I had never seen this model before. Not surprising, it being a military rifle. The card was labeled “Benelli M4 Super 90—CHF 2419” and continued: “Benelli SpA of Urbino, Italy, designed and built the M4 Super 90 Combat shotgun for the United States Marine Corps in 1999.”

Annah was born in 1999 in Berkeley, during our time in California, and my mother was from Urbino. An avalanche of memories flooded my brain and my heart. It overwhelmed me, and my eyes filled with tears. I’d probably never see those places again. They were now secluded in a dreamland of memories, sheltered and private. Never to be seen again. As if someone had erected a tall barrier around me and I had no chance to break free. I could go everywhere and had no constraints of any sort, yet I felt trapped and chained to a boulder.

Forcing my thoughts under control, I focused again on that Benelli. If it was good for a Marine, I reasoned, it was good for us. Well, for me at least. I thought I would never leave home without that shotgun ever. It looked light, like a piece of art, a nice killing machine, if one can use nice with 'killing' and 'machine' in the same sentence. For good measure, I got two of them and plenty of rounds. I had to admit it was a lovely piece of work, too: Italian taste showing off, all matte black, and looking extremely powerful.

I do not know whether I could have made a better choice at the armory. It seemed perfect to me and I was sure no target, dead or alive, would ever complain that I could have shot them more efficiently with other kinds of bullets and guns. I felt our chances of survival were much higher now.

I looked at my wristwatch. I had been away from my women long enough. Next time, heading to other destinations, we would ride together. After they were prepared, that is.

I replaced Joe’s pistol with the Glock 36; I had one loaded and ready to fire. In the street, I aimed at a stop sign. The recoil was lighter than Joe's MAS-50. At thirty yards, the impact was right where the aim was. Very accurate. It had six rounds and I made six holes in the target. The sound, too, was more contained. I mentally relegated Joe’s pistol to a lesser category, to scare dogs and other animals.

The Glock’s gentle recoil amazed me. Or maybe that was normal; I didn't have much experience with guns. Sure, some shooting during military service, but that was years and years ago. The Glock was so thin and compact in comparison to the MAS-50 that I could hide or carry it without any difficulty. I loaded another full magazine, got back to the car and hit the road, leaving a shattered shop. I went back home through the international organizations district.

***

In front of the United Nation's Plaza, a 40-foot-tall memorial made of wood stood defiantly. A monumental sculpture, a chair with a broken leg, in commemoration of all victims of land mines. The broken leg represented the wounds and lost limbs of the victims. The plaza was empty. I didn’t stop, and continued on the Route de Ferney, toward the airport. It was a lonely drive, and I smelled the new guns with a pinch of satisfaction for a job well done.

At one point, the road crossed the A1 motorway to Lausanne on an overpass. From there, I could see the single landing strip of the airport. I wanted to discover what caused the black smoke we saw the first day, smoke that had lasted almost forty-eight hours. Something big must have been burning. Along the road, the wreckage of a trash truck had almost knocked down an old stonewall and debris littered the road. As I slowed down, I noticed the driver was still in the cabin. I could not see where the other members of its crew were.

I stopped at the overpass and there it was, a partially burned plane; one of those private corporate jets among the first to reach Geneva early in the morning for some top executive's business trip.

It must have landed by itself on the ILS to end its run onto the fields beyond the strip, smashing through the airport perimeter. Its nose had dived into the ground and the strip was scorched where the landing gears had collapsed. The fuselage had broken where the engines were attached to that section, toward the rear. It had caught fire and burned after getting separated. That saved—in a manner of speaking—the rest of the plane from complete destruction.

I couldn't read any aircraft registration or the nationality. Must have been located in the rear, darkened by the fire. There were no other planes but those parked in front of the air terminal. Apparently, no flights besides the burned plane had reached Geneva that fatal morning.

The timing matched that of the windstorm, that unnatural wind. It had probably hit us between five and six a.m. Commercial flights never arrived in Geneva before 6:30 a.m. I knew that because I was usually awake every morning at 6:20, and used to hear and see the first arrivals some fifteen, twenty minutes after I woke up. Airplanes had not made it on time into the airport.

What on Earth could be so pervasive and powerful to not only kill people in their beds within a few seconds—and across vast areas—but pilots and passengers on airborne planes, too, all at the same time? If my conjectures were right, the implications were…what were the implications?

I had nowhere to turn for an answer. What sort of power could erase or suck out human lives like that? This was the stuff of science fiction and my mind refused to believe it.

Airplanes must have continued their flights under the control of onboard computers, going through all waypoints until reaching the last one. At that point, the plane would fly on the same course and at the same altitude until it burned up all its fuel. Then the crash would occur when the engines shut down.

I knew that because I’d played X-Plane on my computer for a couple of years. I had some knowledge of airliner characteristics and their FMS, the flight management system. One day, when everything is standardized, it will be possible to touch the landing strip at all airports with no pilot intervention.

I corrected myself. That was in another world. It was not going to be possible anymore, at least in my lifetime and the lifetime of who knows how many generations after mine. The world had changed. There were no pilots left.

In that moment, I realized the planet had to be covered with airplane crashes. Some around major airports if caught while already on the descending slope, especially for the 24-hour facilities. Burned-out wreckage wherever the last waypoint had sent them to a doomed destination. Mind-boggling.

These were pieces of a gigantic cosmic puzzle and I had no idea how to connect them. In anguish, I had visions of 9/11 on a planetary scale. The culling of animals...weird. Escalation in number of deaths and locations. Weird again. Escalation in more evolved life forms such as Emperor Penguins and Mountain Gorillas, and those were the ones we had the time to discover. Who knows what else and where? Then us.

Humans, the dominant species. This time, precisely and massively culled. What on Earth? This led to an external force, a deliberate plan put into action. By who or what?

I got back in the car, dizzied by the enormity of the catastrophe. Were we supposed to survive at all? I gasped for air. The mind is really a funny thing and, as I started the engine, my memory pulled out from nowhere a passage from “The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy” by Douglas Adams:

"If you hold a lungful of air you can survive in the total vacuum of space for about thirty seconds. However, the chances of getting picked up by another ship within those thirty seconds are two to the power of two hundred and seventy-six thousand, seven hundred and nine to one against."

Why had I thought of “The Guide”? Anyway, that was not correct either, I told myself. I don’t think we could hold our breath for thirty seconds in those conditions. At home, relaxed and prepared maybe, if one was fit. Following a rapid decompression? Unprepared and caught by surprise? Not a chance. We would lose all air in our lungs in a blink; we would lose consciousness after a few seconds and die of hypoxia within minutes.

Payne Stewart. The name popped out of nowhere. My subconscious was trying to tell me something. Payne died in his plane together with the pilots and other passengers, apparently from a sudden loss of air pressure in the cabin. Hypoxia. The crash and deaths had been an unsolved mystery, impossible to determine the cause of the cabin decompression. Did someone test something there? That was hyperbolic and the conjecture didn’t last as everything returned to the part of the mind we do not have access to when fully awake.

I called Mary to tell her I was coming home and all was fine. The smoke? A private jet had an uncontrolled landing, ended its run on the fields and partially burned. I would say there were no survivors either. In any case, no emergency vehicles or crew had intervened. Everyone must have been dead already before it happened, both in the airplane and at the air terminal.

“I'll be home in twenty minutes. I love you.”

“I love you too. Be careful,” said Mary.

***

When I got home, I showed Mary and Annah the new arsenal. Annah was excited and wanted to try the pistols right away. Mary, not excited at all. She looked at me, worried, with an exploring gaze, trying to read my mind. I pretended not to notice and addressed Annah. “Slow down, little girl. One thing at a time.”

I wanted to unload everything and do that properly and methodically. “Guns call for respect and need to be treated seriously, Annah.”

Before starting to shoot, I had to familiarize myself with the new gear, then I would be able to help Annah and Mary learn. But first, I wanted to visit my dogs, which I hadn’t had the chance to do that day. I called them my dogs now, even though I never entered the yard where they were confined, nor tried to get them out. Mary and Annah sometimes came with me so the dogs would get to know them, too. This was the big day for all of us.

For some time, I had been bringing two leashes with me and showed them to the dogs. I let them sniff the leashes, bite them, get used to them. I had rubbed the leashes against my body so that my odor would stick and be identified by them. I usually put the leashes down together with the food so that their presence had become, or at least I hoped so, natural and non-threatening.

At the hardware store, I had retrieved two large kennels. I also stayed there for half an hour, every day, reading a book aloud to Annah. She made fun of me as I had her stay in the kennels, too. It was good to laugh, pretending we were kennel neighbors. I loved to see Annah smile again. Mary kept looking at me, worried about my sanity.

After replaceing a safe place to store the guns and bullets, and enjoying a light lunch, it was time to go full Monty with the dog affair. “Today is the day,” I told Mary and Annah. “I am bringing the dogs home.”

I was happy to see Annah was more excited with the idea of having the dogs home with us than with the gun business. She had already chosen the names for both: Taxi and Tarantula. The dogs seemed to love those names and had started to respond to them.

Annah’s choice made me smile when she first told me about the names. “We’ll call them Taxi and Tarantula.”

T and T. TNT, the world express delivery corporation. Their motto “Sure We Can” was a brilliant motto for our family now, too. I told Annah and we adopted it at every occasion. She often repeated it to me, “Because sure we can, Dad.”

I had placed one of my used T-shirts in each kennel so the dogs would recognize my scent, hoping it would be a comforting message for them. I had put myself out for those dogs and I wanted them to become part of the family, plus add to our protection and chances of survival. They would be an important factor in the whole equation. For all of us.

I gave Joe’s pistol to Mary and put the Glock I’d used that morning in my waistband. This time, I walked to meet the dogs. “I believe I won’t be long.”

Mary smiled at me and nodded without replying.

I put their food, the leashes and a large pair of pruning shears in a backpack and left home.

A chain link fence, very common with some in the village, surrounded the property. For some reason, its owners thought it was a much cleaner or lighter solution than stonewalls and old looking wood fences. Quite the opposite of the approach Mary and I had taken for our house. What did the Romans say? “De gustibus non disputandum est.” It’s worthless to discuss personal taste: it is called “personal” for a reason.

I planned to cut the fence while the dogs were busy eating, and then call them to the opening and decide what to do based on their reaction. If all went well, Taxi and Tarantula would sleep that night in their new kennels. Everybody happy. If not… I didn’t want to repeat my uncle’s brutal exploit.

The dogs were waiting for me, as I had successfully created a routine. Taxi and Tarantula barked joyfully when they saw me and wagged their tails. “Hi, Taxi. Hi, Tarantula…Good boy, good girl…Yeah, yeah, I’m here, c’mon, c’mon.”

They were medium-sized dogs, well balanced and muscular, their fur dense and curly. Tarantula, the female, had a light-cream tan to her coat; Taxi was a pure white male. They greeted me standing tall on their hind feet, front paws on the fence.

I put down the backpack, and caressed and, in turn, held their big heads with both hands, standing on the perimeter base of the fence; roughly like a large single step marking the property limits. I had never crossed that threshold. I hoped everything would be fine as the two canines happily licked my fingers. Time to give them their food now and then proceed with the plan.

“Here, here, look at what Mary prepared for you.” I unwrapped the two large balls of rice and meat and cereals.

I had taught them to wait for me to signal when they could start eating. They were both clever and easily trainable. They watched me attentively without looking at the food. Well, they did but discreetly. I did not make them wait too long; they plunged into the food.

I stepped back and walked further down the property line. I took out my shears from the backpack. Slowly, and without making too many movements, I started to cut the fence's metal grid. Both Taxi and Tarantula paused for a second to watch me at first, then decided whatever I was doing was okay and kept eating. After a few cuts, I was able to open the fence enough for the dogs to come out or for me to get in.

In that moment, I took an unknown risk and changed plan. I sneaked through the opening, into the yard. Now, in principle, I was indeed an intruder.

They saw me come in, hesitated, then ran toward me panting and breathing heavily. My hand went to the Glock at my back waistline. I didn’t show fear, just determination in case they turned against me. They encircled me, barking, and pushing, and touching, and jumping like puppies. They were greeting their master. I released my grip on the Glock.

I hugged them, pushing back and wrestling with both. I laughed and it was marvelous. “Yes. Yes. Here Taxi, here Tarantula.” It was so natural and rewarding, as if nothing horrible had ever happened to us, Taxi and Tarantula included. I played with those dogs like a child.

I took them back and let them finish their food then went for the leashes. I had the dogs sit down, side by side and in front of me. It was a serious moment. I kept talking to both in reassuring terms and explained all that was going to happen as if they could understand me. They sure gave me the impression they did. In their eyes, I could see only trust. I secured the leashes one by one.

We strolled around the yard for a little while, starting and stopping. Then I led them to the opening in the fence. I stopped and commanded, “Sit,” gestured with a downward motion of my hand, and pushed on their backs. They obeyed. I mentally thanked their previous owner for having made things easier for me. “Wherever you are, buddy, you did a good job.”

I opened the grid wider so we could go through easily. Me first, then both dogs followed. I had them sit again, this time on the other side of the fence. Also to make them realize where they were and what had just happened. The street, no fence... they could have run away at that moment. They didn’t. I called Mary at home.

“So?” she asked without giving me time to say a word.

“We did it. I’m coming home with Taxi and Tarantula.”

I heard Annah scream in excitement. Mary held the phone so she could hear my words. They had been anxious, too.

“Come home quickly, you three. Don’t waste time on the way.”

Mary’s voice, if possible, was smiling and happy. The dogs and I walked home.