Dragon Read Online Free Page B

was sort of devastating on top of my crushed hope that I might finally get to go home.
    Then Ram went outside with the steaks, and minutes later called me to join him in the anteroom. There’s a table in there and a couple of big plates—platters, really. No silverware. No steak knives or anything remotely civilized like that.
    Ram pushed a platter of seared steak my way and grunted something vague that might have been, “Here,” but also could have been a belch. Then he picked up one of the steaks on his platter and tore into it with his teeth.
    Okay, big confession: I like meat.
    This was a huge no-no at school, where something like two-thirds of the girls were vegetarians, and even those who ate meat only did so in tiny amounts. I used to offer to clear the tables on the nights when we had chicken, and I’d eat the bones all the way back to the kitchen, with my body turned sideways so no one could see. Fortunately most of the girls were in a habit of ignoring me, so I rarely got caught.
    And when I did get caught, I denied it. “Who eats chicken bones?” I’d scoff. “That’s disgusting.” They never pushed the issue—I think they were scared of what they saw, so I got away with it.
    Deep down, though, I knew the truth. I am a disgusting person. Normal people don’t eat chicken bones, no matter how delicious and crunchy and irresistible they are, and no matter how long it’s been since they got a good meal with real meat in it.
    So, seeing Ram pick up the steak and tear into it with his teeth made me stare, gobsmacked, unsure how to proceed. For the past ten years I’d had to exercise strict self-control around meat, going to elaborate lengths to scarf down scraps in secret. And here was this hairy mountain of a man, openly eating a beautiful steak with no compunction and no silverware.
    Then—I can still picture this vividly—Ram sort of sucked in a long strip of fat and flesh he’d torn from the steak with his teeth, and with the food still dangling against his beard, he asked, “What’s the problem?”
    I’m sure my mouth was hanging open.
    In fact, I was probably drooling. I stammered something about utensils, and he told me there weren’t any, and gestured to the steak and told me to eat.
    And I did. I picked up the porterhouse and tore into it and loved it.
    Lunch has been my favorite time of day ever since, with the possible exception of supper, which is my other favorite time. Ram flash-grills the meat—I don’t know how he does it, exactly, but he sears the outside crispy while the inside is bloody and cool.
    It is the best food ever, made even better by the fact that I can eat it openly, without restraint or embarrassment, even sucking the marrow out of the bones.
    So today, Ram grills five steaks—three for him and two for me. And that was just lunch.
    We ate the same again for supper, and then Ram made cookies for dessert. Meat cookies—which are basically hamburgers, sometimes with chunks of onion or mushroom and seasonings inside. Meat cookies are my favorite kind of cookies.
    In all, it’s a great day at work, other than the part where Ram smiled at me, which was unnerving. I mastered the butterfly maneuver and cut up more meat than ever before.
    Satisfied, once I’m finished helping Ram clean up for the day, I step through the door to the anteroom and freeze.
    I can hear scratching and whining coming from the other side of the exterior door. Immediately I realize Ozzie is on the other side. She wants in.
    “Ozzie, what’s wrong?” I ask as I cross the room and open the door just wide enough to get a decent look at Ozzie.
    Then I scream.

Chapter Four
     
    The smell is strong, far stronger than the night before, and Ozzie’s muzzle is a bloodied mess. I’m torn between holding the door open so she can come in, and slamming it shut to keep the evil out.
    Fortunately I don’t have to make the choice myself. Ram runs up behind me, scoops up Ozzie like an infant, and whisks her