Friend

The phone rang and rang. Dave didn't pick up. I called Frank, then Mike. Same result.

Nobody answered.

The border had closed, and my friends were trapped on the other side of it. I had given them a route to bypass the checkpoint, but it wasn't a road I had ever taken myself. All three of them going silent could only mean something had gone wrong.

Fear hit me without warning, a cold wave breaking over my whole body. And with it came a vast, crushing sense of isolation. I had escaped onto American soil alone, but I had always felt connected to Dave and the others. Because of that, I had never truly felt like I was on my own. The moment I thought that connection had been cut, loneliness crashed in right on the heels of the fear.

The news that the border had shut, and Dave's phone going dead on the other side of it — those two facts settled around my ankles like a pair of heavy shackles. A suffocating solitude clenched around my heart, but I couldn't just sit there and take it.

A promise was a promise. I put my hands back on the wheel and pointed the truck toward Boise, the third rendezvous I had set with Dave.

The city drew closer, and I made for the Flying J we had agreed on. I parked the W990 in the enormous lot and killed the engine. An awkward silence spilled into the cab.

I picked up the phone and dialed Dave again. Then Frank. Then Mike. What came back was still that same soulless ringing.

Should I go back and look for them?

The urge to turn around — to cross back into the Canadian country where they might be stranded — rose up in me hard. And in that instant, a voice like ice spoke up inside my head. My senior from the Foreign Legion. I had heard it until I was sick of it.

He was right. All I had right now was noise — the unconfirmed fact that nobody was picking up the phone. Whether they had given up at the border, whether they were following the bypass I had given them, or whether they had already found another way — none of it had been confirmed. Changing the plan because your feelings got the better of you was the kind of thing the first idiots to die on a battlefield always did.

I got a grip. Wait here in Boise, the way we had promised, and make the best preparations I could. That was the most rational call I could make.

In the truck stop diner I forced dinner down my throat. Then, under a scalding stream of water, I spent the entire shower washing the tangle of thoughts out of my head and putting the plan ahead of me in order.

I can't let the anxiety eat me alive.

To stay alive, you always prepared for the worst — and then you chose the best option you had, and you acted on it.

The sleeper felt even lonelier than usual when I came back from the shower. I dropped onto the sofa and switched on the TV, if only to break the silence of the empty space. The world on the screen was still sinking into chaos — no. It was sinking deeper than before.

I changed the channel. The next station was covering the border. Helicopter footage, shot from high above — the Coutts port of entry, the same checkpoint I had rolled through only days ago. It had become a vast open-air parking lot, a mass of immobilized vehicles stretching for dozens of miles.

The anchor's voice laid itself over the picture.

Then the next story turned my blood cold.

On the screen, men in hunting camo with long guns were stopping pickup trucks in the middle of the road and interrogating the drivers.

The bypass I had given Dave might no longer be a path of hope. It might already have become a road with a new kind of trap waiting on it — and that thought sat in my gut like a stone. There was nothing I could do. Inside this cold steel fortress, I was powerless. I had no way of knowing where Dave and the others were, what they were doing, or what kind of danger they were in.

The anxiety spread through me again like poison. And I had to admit, bitterly, that the only thing left for me to do was wait.

I always thought I was alone. I prided myself on having endured everything by myself.

The isolation I felt now was a completely different weight. If the old solitude had been a shield I chose for myself, this was a prison — one that pinned me in place and would not let me move. I forced that restless heart of mine to settle, and I ended another day.

The next morning, I started the day's routine like a machine. The scalding water in the truck stop shower didn't help. Neither did the tasteless breakfast in the diner. Neither of them did a thing for the mess in my head.

A few truckers recognized me and came over to say hello, but it wasn't as loud and chaotic as Mountain Home, so it was bearable enough.

After I ate, I picked up the phone one more time. Dave. Frank. Mike.

Please... just pick up. Please.

I said it over and over in my head. What came back, stubborn as ever, was nothing but that empty ringing.

I collected myself and stopped into the truck stop store. Out of habit I bought a few cartons of cigarettes and a few bottles of whiskey, then pulled more U.S. dollars from the ATM. I repeated the mechanical motions, trying however I could to shake the anxiety off.

Even after I came back to my fortress and started stowing the new supplies, the worry for my friends would not leave my head. If I kept going like this, I was going to lose my mind.

I knew from experience that when the mind wouldn't clear, you had to drive the body to its limits. I decided to do the cardio I had been putting off. There was just one difference from the peaceful jogs of the old world.

I took the VP9 out of the hidden drawer in the sleeper and changed the holster setup on my tactical belt. It had been configured for a right-handed draw. I switched it to a left-handed configuration and moved it to the small of my back. That way I could snatch the pistol from behind my waist with my right hand, fast. The outer layer of clothing hid it, and it wouldn't interfere with running.

That was when a Foreign Legion comrade's voice came back to me.

My army buddies had always thought of me as a madman more than a strong soldier. But I was neither strong nor crazy. I was just a man who endured — a man who thrashed and struggled so that he could keep enduring.

From there, the old memory bled naturally into mapping out a jogging route. I had already checked that the ground around the truck stop and the highway shoulder were fairly wide. I set a goal of fifteen kilometers, then revised it down to ten, and stepped out of the truck.

I started running as if I could cut the cold wind and throw the heavy thoughts off with it. One stride, then another, driving off the asphalt. Icy air stabbed into my lungs. Only the rhythm of my breathing and the strike of my feet reached my ears. The anxiety and worry that had been crowding my head seemed to evaporate with the sweat.

I was almost at the turnaround when I saw it, and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I froze where I stood.

From the mountainside beside the road, a massive wolf came down in a sliding glide and planted itself in the middle of the pavement. Fur in a mix of ash-gray and black. Eyes sharp with hunger. It stood there, motionless, and locked those eyes on mine.

My pulse hammered, but I knew it in my gut: turning my back, or bolting in fear, would be the worst choice I could make. Slowly — very slowly — I let my fingers brush the pistol grip at my waist, and I murmured, low, the way you talk to an old friend.

"Alright. Let's each go our own way, friend."

It didn't seem to understand a word. It started coming toward me, slow and deliberate, carrying a threat in every step. A low growl seemed to rumble from its throat — or maybe I only imagined it. I kept my eyes on its eyes and backpedaled, holding the distance.

At the same time, the thumb of my right hand quietly swept the indicator on the VP9 seated in the holster at the small ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of my back. I felt the small pin protruding at the rear of the striker. It was loaded. I released the holster's retention lock without a sound.

Dozens of simulations ran through my head. The instant it lunged, I would pivot to create distance and draw in the same motion, and I would put three rounds into it — no. I would dump the whole magazine. Head and heart.

The wolf closed a little faster, dropping into a crouch that was half a stride from a sprint. A hair-trigger moment. I was just about to draw, just about to get my finger on the trigger, when something strange caught my eye.

Around its neck, through the gray fur — a thin black line. The words slipped out of me like a sigh.

"Wait. What? That's a collar."

That one small discovery completely thawed the frozen moment. As the tension went out of me, I could look at the animal properly.

Is this one of those wolfdogs I've only ever heard about?

But it was far too big for an ordinary wolfdog. If this thing stood up on its hind legs, it would be taller than most grown men. While I was still taking in that imposing size, it came right up to me. And then ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it lay down.

It pressed that massive body to the ground and started to wag its tail, just a little. The threat from a moment ago was gone without a trace. It looked up at me the way a loyal dog looks up, waiting for its person.

Only then could I really see the state it was in. The fur was matted with dirt and dust, as if it had been separated from its owner for a good while. Its belly was sucked in so far the hide clung to its spine — it had clearly been starving for some time.

I looked into its eyes. They were clear, and deep. What lived in them was not wariness, and not hostility. It was loneliness, and a vague, unformed hope. Perhaps it knew I wasn't its owner. Perhaps it simply missed the warmth of a human being.

I spoke to it in a low voice. The words were for the animal, and at the same time, they were for me.

"You lost a friend, too..."