14 Degrees Below Zero Read Free

canine on the other side of the street. A female, Lewis thought, but his assessment was certainly clouded by the creature holding its leash—a girl of about twenty-five in those hip-hugger pants and spaghetti-strap top that was apparently handed out as a uniform these days.
She
didn’t seem cold, but Lewis’s hands were shaking.
    Lewis, at forty-seven, prided himself on not being the sort of man who took untoward notice of girls almost half his age—girls, he reminded himself with a wince, who were essentially the same age as his daughter.
    “I said
sit,
” he growled, more loudly. Carew did not comply. Carew had gotten a taste for chaos during his wild, predomestication days, and ran wild through the house and slept on the sofas. He was most definitely not getting with the program. The dog
knew
that Lewis was in no condition to train it.
    In a full-fledged pique, Lewis jerked on Carew’s leash—all right, granted, probably
too
hard, but how else was he to get his message across? The girl across the street looked up, and a flash of concerned consternation played across her admittedly pretty face. Lewis imagined himself through her eyes: an old guy, bundled up though it wasn’t really that cold, losing his shit and committing borderline animal abuse.
    Lewis smiled and gave her a
what’re-you-gonna-do
shrug. She would have been in his range, back when he was young. Now it was out of the question. It was unsavory to even think about it. But he thought about it.
    The girl gave Lewis a little half-smile, noncommittal, and went on her way. Her ponytail bounced on her shoulder blades as she walked.
    Now why the hell had she given him a look like that? All right, he was dressed far too warm in his hooded sweatshirt and black burglar’s cap. The girl was sleeveless, her arms fetchingly lithe and tanned. It wasn’t his fault he was bundled like an old man—the goddammed antidepressant his doctor had forced on him made him feel high and giddy in the morning, his face and fingers borderline numb, and random pains and chills flitted through his chest cavity. Maybe the girl wouldn’t have been so standoffish if she’d known that he’d just lost his wife. The pretty ones always thought they were above you—and all because of a chance genetic fluke that inspired behavior in men that was, in the end, little more than a complicated mask over extremely simple desires.
    He could have had that girl when he was younger. He was sure of it.
    He’d been married to Anna for twenty-five years when she died. He couldn’t say they were all good years, especially when he was younger, more angry. The last years, before she got sick, were also no picnic. But time had passed, they had stayed together. Sometimes he thought they shouldn’t have. But there was no point thinking about it now.
    Lewis and Carew reached the empty park. It was silent and still, too early for the children to be out.
    “Here we are, boy,” Lewis said, his voice morning-hoarse. “Your earthly paradise—Dogshit Park.”
    Lewis walked gingerly through the grass, fastidiously avoiding the plethora of turds that decorated the turf. They were like synesthetic land mines, their sight and smell permeating his oversensitized consciousness and senses in a way that had been the norm for the past year, since Anna had learned she was sick.
    Taking in a measured breath, Lewis massaged his chest. He was light-headed, and everything seemed unreal. He tried to will the world back into focus, to make everything take on the somber tones of reality. He sent out internal feelers for the catastrophic explosion of pain behind his sternum that would be the last thing he ever felt.
    It didn’t happen. He didn’t die. He came back to himself.
    There was a big sign posted: CLEAN UP AFTER YOUR DOG . Someone had painted over some of the letters, and now it read: LEAN AFT YO DOG . Everyone apparently felt they had a special dispensation from the rules, anyway, because there was shit