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hand under my elbow and lifted me to my feet. There was a ladder in my stocking. My knee oozed blood.
    â€œI left him,” I said.
    â€œI can see why,” she answered. She patted my back.
    Ilya twisted and kicked, rocking back and forth like a kid running against a sling swing. The dog snarled, a hollow trembling sound almost lost in the noise of the train. I thought she’d lunge for him, but she just stood her ground. Between him and me.
    He must have wormed his arm out of the jacket sleeve, because suddenly he was off running, and his jacket hung limp in the man’s grasp like a shed skin. I heard the thumping of his boots on the marble, shouts as he must have crashed through a crowd, and then nothing.
    The man looked at the jacket, then at me.
    â€œI don’t want it,” I said.
    The police, of course, were nowhere.
    *   *   *
    There was fuss, but eventually the ring of opinionated observers we’d drawn filtered off to their trains. The two helpful bystanders who had saved my life decided I could be left alone. The woman gave me a tissue. The man insisted I take Ilya’s coat. Only then did they feel they had performed their civic obligations and reluctantly leave me alone.
    I dropped Ilya’s coat on a bench. Somebody would take it, but it wouldn’t be me. I hoped his phone was in the pocket, but I didn’t bother to check.
    Then I looked at the dog.
    She sniffed my bloodied knee and looked thoughtful. She tried to lick it, but I pushed her away.
    â€œYou set this up, didn’t you?” Not Ilya trying to kill her, no. But me finding out about the other woman.
    Or maybe it was just one bitch taking care of another. Do you know your mate is no good?
    She just looked at me, squeezed her eyes, and thumped her shaggy tail. So you should thank me.
    I huffed at her—like an irritated dog myself—and turned on the ball of my foot. This time I had the sense to be wearing practical shoes. She waited. I stopped, turned back, and saw her staring after me.
    I had the money from the clinic—just as Ilya had suggested—but I sure as hell wouldn’t be spending it on Ilya’s band. I was going to enroll in classes tonight after work, and pay my tuition in advance. The cocktail job wasn’t going away, and it didn’t conflict with morning or most afternoon classes.
    One of the apartments I had looked at was a student studio flat near the university. It was a complete roach motel, but it allowed pets.
    I could do this thing.
    I looked at the dog. She needed a bath.
    The dog looked at me.
    â€œWell,” I said to her. “Aren’t you coming?”
    I started walking. The dog fell into step beside me. Her plumy tail wagged once.

 

    Copyright © 2014 by Elizabeth Bear
    Art copyright © 2014 by Robert Hunt