Sayuri 1 - Crash and Burn

"This is the last time you just waltz in here late for work, Eric!"

Eric Waverly closed his eyes as his boss ripped into him, knowing that this was it. He'd pushed Mr. Breeland too far this time. The last week's bad luck had finally culminated in this latest, greatest calamity and now he was out of a job. Desperation clawed at his throat. He had car payments, car insurance, his cell phone bill, and his scholarship didn’t exactly cover day-to-day living; he had to keep trying to reason with the surly old man because he needed this job.

“Sir, please—”

"Yesterday it was some little old lady who's purse got stolen," Breeland continued, spittle flying as he growled. "The day before that, two guys roughing up some skank teenager down on Twelfth. I'm tired of your excuses!"

There really had been a purse-snatcher yesterday, and a woman walking with a cane screaming about the kid who'd rushed off with her purse. Eric had strained his shoulder taking the thief down so he could give the bag back. And there really had been a girl screaming for help while two losers had been in the process of making it very obvious she'd picked the wrong route to wherever she was going; Twelfth Street was a bad neighborhood in the city of Pattou, Arizona. But what was he supposed to do, let her get beaten up or mugged or raped? Maybe killed?

Opening his eyes, he tried again. "Look, Mr. Breeland, I can explain. There was an accident on Fifth, a kid on a bike got grazed by a car. No one was stopping. I had to—"

"Was the kid walking around?" Mr. Breeland demanded, folding his thick-muscled arms across his massive chest. Eric's hands clenched. "Because if he was walking, the little punk was fine! And I don't pay you to babysit little dodos playing in the street!"

Yeah, the kid had been walking, but he'd been bleeding, too. Scraped up. Eric had parked in front of the drugstore on Fifth Street and sat with the kid, calling his mother and doing a basic first-aid checkup to make sure he didn’t have a concussion or any broken bones.

The kid—whose name had been Josh—had been freaked out at first by a grown man talking to him, but the presence of Eric's dog Wendy had helped calm him down. Eric would've taken the kid to a hospital anyway, but Josh had told him that a) he wasn’t going anywhere with a stranger, and b) they didn’t have insurance and his mom couldn’t afford the hospital bills. He certainly couldn’t afford to pay for them, so he'd waited with Josh until the mom showed up to take him to the free clinic downtown to treat his minor injuries. Eric had dropped Wendy off like he did every day and high-tailed it to work—two hours late.

"Mr. Breeland—"

"You're fired, Eric," the old man growled. Eric's eyes squeezed shut and his fingers convulsed into knotted fists again; his short nails bit into his palms. "Get out."

Even though it was pathetic, even though it infuriated him, he tried begging. "Sir, I need this job." Richard, his roommate, had stolen two-hundred bucks from Eric's stash and skipped out on him at the beginning of the month, so he was short on the rent. He really shouldn’t have been that surprised. His ex-roommate, Brian, who'd moved out to get married, had warned him beforehand that Richard was a bad bet, but Richard and Eric had been friends for years. He still couldn’t believe the jerk had actually stolen from him.

It was a bigger problem because he didn’t have much saved up for an emergency. Irritation edged with a fizz of panic twisted in his stomach as he considered that without his wages for the next two weeks, he'd be short on the rent. And if he didn’t pay on time, he'd get hit with a bigger fine every day.

"Please, Mr. Breeland—"

"Forget it, Eric. You're fired. Get out of my face."

The old man turned away, but Eric's hand snaked out without his permission and grabbed his boss's greasy sleeve. "Mr. Breeland, please. I'll work overtime, no extra pay! I'll do double-shifts, I'll wash the dishes after closing-shift, I—"

Mr. Breeland shook him off. "Too late, kid. You had your shot. Now beat it!"

His stomach twisting into knots, his hands clutched into shaking fists to keep from punching the wall—or his ex-boss—Eric swallowed, turned to the door, and walked out of Breeland's Diner into the back alley where the restaurant tossed its garbage. This was where most of the diner's employees came in, because the alley was wide enough for one car to drive carefully from Cumberland Avenue into the grassy, fenced-off lot full of junk behind the diner. This was where most of the employees parked, saving them having to walk several blocks from wherever they could find a parking space. Eric's blue Chevy truck waited for him in that lot.

To his surprise, a golden retriever lay in the bed of the truck, her chin propped up on the tailgate. Then again, that was how he'd found Wendy in the first place. That day a little more than a year ago when he'd gotten the call at work about his dad, he'd found her lounging in his truck-bed. She'd looked pretty healthy for a stray, so he'd assumed she belonged to someone. For four months after that, she'd showed up every day after he got off-shift and waited for him in his truck, greeting him like she belonged to him. It had been kind of nice, actually. No one else had been so happy to see him since his dad had died.

Eventually, he'd decided to keep the dog. Impractical since money was tight, and Richard had hated dogs, but…he just hadn’t wanted to be alone (his roommate didn’t count; he was hardly ever there) in his rat-hole on-campus apartment anymore. He'd needed someone there. Anyone. Even if it was just a dog. And when he'd taken her to the vet, they'd discovered she had no microchip and so no traceable registration, since she didn’t have a collar or tags, and she was ridiculously healthy, considering she was a stray. No worms, no fleas, nothing. So he'd kept her.

But Eric knew he'd dropped Wendy off at Mrs. Ramirez's house before getting to work today. What was she doing back early?

Then he noticed Mrs. Ramirez standing next to his truck, a worried look on her weathered face. Mrs. Ramirez had agreed to watch Wendy while Eric was at work—he didn’t want to leave the dog in his apartment all day because of his psychotic neighbors, plus it wasn’t exactly legal—because her daughter Marisa liked to play with Wendy. Mrs. Ramirez was an old friend of his dad's; she worked at the library to make a little extra money while her husband was out of state looking for work. What was she doing here?

If she'd been out here long, maybe she'd heard Breeland bellowing at him. Well, he knew she was bound to be sympathetic. Whenever he was a little short on cash, Mrs. Ramirez always made a point to invite him over for dinner so he could save money on food, and she always made extra so he could take the rest home. When he got sick, she always made him chicken soup. Once when someone had broken into his apartment and he hadn’t been able to sleep there until the locks got fixed, she'd offered him her living room couch for a few days. At least with her around he wouldn’t starve while he tried to find a new job and a new place.

"Eric," Mrs. Ramirez said gently when he approached. Her wrinkled hands came up and tugged at the collar of his white, button-down shirt. "Your collar is crooked, miho."

A reluctant smile tugged at his mouth. "Thanks, Mrs. Ramirez. What's going on? What are you doing out here? Everything okay?" He glanced at the fire-escape that ran the length of one of the nearby apartment buildings. Mrs. Ramirez lived in a two-bedroom apartment on the fourth floor of a red-brick building only a few dozen yards from the lot. Eric noticed Marisa Ramirez, a shy and skinny eight-year-old, watching them from the fire-escape landing.

Mrs. Ramirez sighed. "I'm very sorry, Eric, but we can't take the dog anymore." He frowned, confused. Her accent thickened as she grew more agitated. "Eric, I'm very sorry, but we're moving away in a couple days. I wanted you to know. It's very sudden, I know. I'm sorry."

He swallowed. "M-moving?" He shook his head, running a hand over the short, sharp bristles on his scalp. He really needed to shave his head again, he thought inanely. He stared at Mrs. Ramirez. "You're moving?"

"It's my husband, miho," she explained softly. "He got a job in California. A really good job, actually. He called us last night and told me. We have to pack today and tomorrow, then we're move. His company is even sending a van for us. I'm sorry, Eric."

Eric cleared his throat. Somewhere far away, icy panic clawed up and down his spine, but in the immediate moment, he offered the older Hispanic woman a smile. "Times are hard," he said softly. "I'm glad things are working out for you guys."

But they were not working out for him. Not at all. He'd lost his job and now he'd lost his one means of extra support…what was he supposed to do?

She smiled and cupped his cheek. She had to stand on tiptoe to kiss the other one. When she did, Eric smelled her floral perfume. "You're a good boy, Eric. I will be praying for you always. Promise me you'll be careful. This city is unkind to good boys. But you're stronger than that unkindness, yes?"

"Yeah," he said with another forced smile. He hugged Mrs. Ramirez, whose five-two frame was tiny compared to his towering six feet and two inches, and kissed her on the cheek. "Thanks for looking out for me."

"Of course. Of course. You're a good boy. Goodbye, miho. Take care."

He waited until Mrs. Ramirez had left the lot and gone back up the fire-escape, until she and Marisa were inside and had shut and locked the window, before he kicked the front tire of his truck with savage fury. A brief throb of pain surged through his foot. Ignoring it, he kicked the tire again and again and again, muffled snarls and profanity smothered to grunts behind his clenched teeth. Temper boiled up in his blood like poison. No job, no friend to help out, Richard had freaking stolen from him, midterms were coming up, and probably all too soon he'd have no freaking apartment! It wasn’t fair! It wasn’t right that he lost his job for being a decent guy, that his ex-best friend had stolen from him! It wasn't right!

He paced the perimeter of the weedy lot before whipping around and driving his fist into the side of a half-full dumpster. The blow dented the thin, weak metal. His scraped knuckles split open again. Blood welled up and spilled across his caramel-colored skin. He clenched his fist and pain spasmed through his knuckles. He'd have bruises later.

Wearily, he trudged back to his truck. Closing his eyes, he turned and slammed his body against the driver's side door before sinking to the ground with a sigh. A clunk sounded when he dropped his head against the door.

A low, canine whine broke the quiet a few moments later. Eric cracked on eye to see Wendy sitting next to him, big brown eyes the same color as his own looking woeful. When she realized he was looking at her, she whined again. Her head inched forward until she dropped her chin on his shoulder. She heaved a huge sigh.

"Yeah," Eric muttered. "Everything sucks today, doesn't it?" Wendy made a dog noise. Eric decided she was agreeing with him and rubbed his hand over her silky head. "Let's get out of here, huh? It's a long drive home. We're having ramen for dinner again."

The drive took longer than anticipated, since a five-car pileup occurred on the access road he normally used to hit the freeway. Wendy, curled up on the passenger seat next to him, lifted her head to stare at the massive accident. Eric sighed.

"You know, they teach you about triage in med school," he told the dog, even though he knew she couldn’t understand him. Talking to Wendy when he drove helped him relax on the road. "So I can tell you, that's a bad accident up there, Wendy-bird. Let's take the frontage road, what d'you say?"

Wendy made another dog sound, but her tail wagged, so he took that as a yes and made the right turn onto the access ramp for the frontage road.

The frontage road was a long stretch of asphalt that ran about the length of half the city of Pattou, Arizona. On either side of it sat several miles of Sonoran dessert, empty of hardly any buildings or signs except the speed limit and a couple billboards. The desert was cordoned off by barbed wire to keep cows, herds of javelinas, and other wild animals off the road. It didn’t work on anything smaller than a large dog, though. People hit coyotes on the frontage road all the time. Driving along through that empty desert made Eric wish his car radio worked. Or that he had an iPod or something. He hated silence.

Tension ratcheted through his shoulders as he considered what had happened in the last hour—he'd lost his job, he'd lost his one support in Pattou. He was going to get evicted in about a month, possibly arrested for proving delinquent on his rent. He wanted to bang his head on the steering wheel. Instead he tapped his fingers to a beat from a B.o.B. song he liked, a habit he'd picked up from his mom as a kid. She'd always sung a song when she was frustrated.

"We're gonna be okay, Wendy," he told the retriever, wishing he believed it. He had no idea what they were going to do. There were maybe ten bags of ramen left in the cupboard, half a box of Lucky Charms, half a pack of hotdogs, some lunchmeat. Normally they'd just go to the grocery store, but this time…Eric sighed. "We're gonna be fine," he reiterated. "We're gonna be—"

And then a ball of fiery something at least three times the size of his truck hurtled out of the sky and slammed into the earth with enough force to send a cloud of rock chunks and dust spewing into the air. The shockwave slammed into the rusted Chevy. The steering wheel jerked in Eric's hands, the tires twisted. The truck fishtailed. Gripping the wheel, Eric fought to get his truck under control while Wendy barked frantically, scrambling to tuck herself under the dashboard on the passenger side.

His brain squawked a reminder not to hit the breaks or he'd roll the truck and probably kill them both. The world spun by in dizzying smears of umber, green, dust-gray, and washed-out blue as the truck swerved and twisted in circles until it skidded to a halt in the middle of the road.

Eric's shaking hands gripped the wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. He stared, wide-eyed, at the haze of dust and grit hovering above the desert floor beyond the barbed wire strung along the frontage road. The breath caught in his throat before squeezing its way into his tight lungs. Wendy climbed back onto the seat and butted her head against his shoulder before frantically licking his face.

"I'm fine," Eric mumbled, pushing at the dog. She whined, pressing close. He slid an arm around her. Her warm, furry body helped calm the chill frosting over him as adrenaline slowly began to fade. "I'm okay. You okay?"

Wendy licked his face again in answer. She was fine. Just freaked out. He wiped at the icy sweat sheening his face and stared out the windshield at the desert.

"What was that?"