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spider crawled over my feet and hurried away.
    I cupped my hands to my mouth. “Steve! Come on, boy! Come here!”
    In response I heard a metallic jingle—the dog tags around his collar.
    “Come on, Big Steve.” I slapped my hands against my thighs. “Come here, buddy. Good dog.”
    The brush rustled to my right. Big Steve emerged, looking pitiful. His big brown eyes were apologetic, and his tail, which was still between his legs, flipped cautiously back and forth. I couldn’t scold him. After all, I’d been just as terrified as he was. I should have had the good sense to listen to him earlier, when he’d tried to tell me that something was wrong.
    Wrong? I glanced behind us, back into the dark part of the forest. Something wasn’t just wrong. Something was terribly fucked up. And despite the sunlight and the warm spring air, I didn’t want to stay in those woods a moment longer.
    “Come on, buddy. Let’s get the hell out of here.” I lit a cigarette, and that seemed to make things a little better.
    Big Steve wagged his tail in eager confirmation, and we headed home.
    For a brief second, as we left the tree line and crossed back into the park, I thought I heard the satyr’s pipe. But then I realized it was just a bird, singing from its perch high on the monkey bars.
    The bird caught sight of Big Steve and flew away. It darted toward the forest, and then veered in midair and turned toward the open sky, almost as if it feared the woods more than it did the dog.

FOUR
    By the time we made it back to the house, my arms, legs, and hands were tingling as if they’d fallen asleep. My ears rang, and I felt both nauseous and exhausted. Despite the warm weather, I was shivering. Cold sweat beaded on my forehead and under my arms. Then my vision blurred. Delayed shock. I almost fell over right there in the yard. Stumbling for the door, I tried to shake it off.
    “We didn’t see that,” I told Big Steve, and then repeated it to myself. But saying it out loud didn’t make it any less real.
    I unhooked the dog’s leash and he made a beeline for the kitchen. We kept his food and water dishes on the kitchen floor, next to Tara’s grandmother’s antique china cabinet. While I hung up the leash and lit another cigarette, Big Steve buried his snout in his water bowl and slurped greedily. His fast-flicking tongue sloshed water out onto the floor. I wiped it up with a paper towel. Finished drinking, Big Steve ran over to the counter. On top of it was a wicker basket filled with rawhide chews and dog treats. He looked at me expectantly and wagged his tail.
    I laughed, and as I did I felt some of the tension drain away. Despite everything that had just occurred, Big Steve still had his priorities in order. Every day, after returning from our morning walk, the first thing I did was give him a rawhide to gnaw on. Usually he chewed it underneath my desk while I started the day’s work. It kept him busy and out of my hair for the first half hour or so. After that he’d usually take a nap. If he didn’t, I’d then find other ways to distract him.
    I grinned. “You want a bone?”
    He leaped into the air, slammed back down onto the floor, and then ran in an excited little circle. It was times like that I wished we’d had him when he was a puppy. I’ll bet he was cute back then.
    I fished a rawhide out of the basket and surrendered it without making him first run through his gamut of tricks (sit, shake, lie down, roll over, and stand up). After all he’d been through, it didn’t seem right making him work for his treat.
    Big Steve expertly caught the rawhide chip in his mouth and then trotted away with his head held high. He curled up underneath my desk and chewed away in happy contentment.
    I tried to follow his lead, tried to shake off the morning’s weird experience. I made a pot of coffee and, while it was brewing, fired up my laptop and turned on the stereo, setting the fifty-disc changer to random play, and keeping the