I broke into a run myself, the loaded pack thumping up and down on my back. I ducked under a line of dangling shoes and grabbed Radar’s collar. “Quit it, girl! Get off her!”
But that wasn’t going to happen right away, because Dora had her arms around Radar’s neck and was hugging her head against her bosom… much as she had done for me. Her feet, clad in the same red shoes （with the green stockings her look was quite Christmasy）， kicked up and down, doing a happy-dance. When she sat up, I saw there was the faintest touch of dull color in those gray cheeks, and gummy liquid—surely all she could manage for tears—was spilling from her narrow lashless eyes.
“Rayyy!” she cried, and hugged my dog again. Radar went to work licking her neck, tail whipping back and forth. “Rayyy, Rayyy, RAYYY!”
“I guess you guys know each other,” I said.
4
I didn’t have to break into my supplies; she fed us and fed us well. The stew was the best I’d ever eaten, loaded with meat and potatoes, swimming in savory gravy. It crossed my mind—probably influenced by some horror movie or other—that we might be eating human flesh, but then I dismissed the idea as ridiculous. This woman was good. I didn’t need to see a jolly expression or kindly eyes to know; it radiated from her. And if I didn’t trust that, there was the way she had greeted Radar. And, of course, the way Radar had greeted her. I got my own hug when I helped her to her feet, but not like the one she’d given Rades.
I kissed her cheek, which seemed perfectly natural. Dora patted me on the back and pulled me inside. The cottage was a single large room, and toasty warm. There was no fire in the fireplace, but the stove was going full out, with the pot of stew simmering on a flat metal plate—what I believe is called a hob （although I could be wrong about that）。 There was a wooden table in the middle of the room with a vase of poppies in the center. Dora set out two white bowls that looked hand-made and two wooden spoons. She gestured for me to sit down.
Radar curled up as close to the stove as she could get without singeing her fur. Dora got another bowl from one of the cupboards and used the pump hanging over the kitchen sink to fill it with water. She set it down for Radar, who lapped eagerly. But, I noticed, without lifting her hindquarters from the floor. Which wasn’t a good sign. I’d been careful to ration her exercise, but when she’d seen her old friend’s house, nothing could have held her back. If she’d been on the leash （which was stowed in my pack）， she would have jerked it out of my hand.
Dora put a teakettle on, served out the stew, then bustled back to the stove. She took mugs from the cupboard—like the bowls, they were rather lumpy—and a jar from which she spooned tea. Ordinary tea, I hoped, not something that would get me stoned. I felt stoned enough already. I kept thinking that this world was somehow below my world. It was a hard idea to shake because I’d gone down to get here. And yet there was sky above. I felt like Charlie in Wonderland, and if I’d looked out the cottage’s round front window and seen the Mad Hatter bopping along the road out there （maybe with a grinning Cheshire cat on his shoulder）， I wouldn’t have been surprised. Or rather, more surprised.
The strangeness of the situation didn’t change how hungry I was; I’d been too nervous to eat much breakfast. Still, I waited until she brought the mugs and sat down. This was ordinary politeness, of course, but I also thought she might want to say some sort of a prayer; a huzzy-buzzy version of Bless this food we are about to eat. She didn’t, just picked up her spoon and gestured for me to dig in. As I said, it was delicious. I fished out a chunk of the meat and showed it to her, raising my eyebrows.
The crescent of her mouth turned up in her version of a smile. She put two fingers above her head and hopped a little in her seat.
“Rabbit?”
She nodded and made a grating, gurgling sound. I realized she was laughing, or trying to, and it made me sad, the same way I felt when I saw someone blind, or a person in a wheelchair who was never going to walk again. Most people like that don’t want pity. They cope with their disabilities, help others, live good lives. They’re brave. I get all that. Yet it seemed to me—maybe because everything in my personal system was working five-by-five—that there was something mean about having to deal with such things, out of whack and unfair. I thought of a girl I went to elementary school with: Georgina Womack. She had a huge strawberry birthmark on one cheek. Georgina was a cheerful little thing, smart as a whip, and most kids treated her decently. Bertie Bird used to trade lunchbox stuff with her. I thought she would make her way in life, but I was sorry she had to look at that mark on her face in the mirror every day. It wasn’t her fault, and it wasn’t Dora’s fault that her laugh, which should have been beautiful and free, sounded like an ill-tempered growl.