Verdict: The Angel in the House needs a party

Dog came to see me today.  He just came over. Cam wasn't even home.  I guess he has a key.  That's all right if it's only him.  I don't think Cam would give one to anyone else anyway.

"Hey," he said.  I like the way his voice rumbles just a little, even when he's speaking softly.  

I nodded.

"I hear you've been holed up pretty tight back here," he said.  "Thought you might like some company."

I smiled a little and nodded again.

He sat down at the foot of the bed.  I was kind of wrapped up in the middle.  I had taken everything off but the fitted sheet and just kind of fluffed it all around me.  It was like a nest.

He looked at me. Dog doesn't ever seem like he's staring, even though he tends to keep a pretty long steady gaze on whoever he's with.  Staring is uncomfortable.  Dog's just paying attention.

"Not feeling too chatty," he said rather than asked.

I looked away.

"Cam's worried about you," he said.

I fiddled with the threadbare edge of a blanket and tried to imagine what Dog does all day.  He doesn't seem like someone who has ordinary days.

He sat back and watched me for a while.  I waited a bit, but Dog was obviously comfortable where he was.  He wasn't going anywhere, and he'd already done the talking he was going to do for the moment.

I picked up the little notebook Cam got for me, and the pen I keep latched on to it.  I don't want him to worry, I wrote.  

Dog looked over at what I'd written.  He cocked an eyebrow at me.  "What's with the new medium?"

I can't exactly remember how to talk just now, I wrote.

Dog is about the only person in the world who could take a statement like that and just accept it for what it was:  the truth.  "That why you shut yourself up in here?" he asked.

I don't know, I wrote.  

My hands started to shake.  I put the pen and paper down quickly, but he noticed.  

"Hey," he said.  He got up and shrugged out of the jacket he was wearing and wrapped it around me.  More of a shirt than a jacket.  Heavy black corduroy.  It felt warm from him.  

"Come on," he said.  He was still kind of holding it around me.  Then he touched my face and I wondered why his fingers felt wet.

"You're in a bad way," he said.

I hate it when I don't know I'm crying.  It's supposed to be about feeling bad enough to do it, and for me it doesn't seem to have anything to do with me.  Like my hands shaking.  I can sit and watch them and not feel a thing.

They took my body away when all that happened.  It doesn't feel like mine any more.

"Okay," Dog said.  His hands were on my shoulders.  I could feel that, anyway.  Dog knows how to make himself felt when he wants to be.  

"We need to get you out of here," he said.  

I shook my head. I knew he wanted to help, but out really wasn't what I was looking for.

Even when I lived with my parents, I liked my room best.  The worse things got at home, the more I clung to it. Which doesn't make any sense, unless I was thinking maybe if things did get any better, I didn't want to miss it.  But I just wanted to be where I felt safe.

Now that I have somewhere I really am safe, you couldn't knock me out of here with a cannon.  

Cam's fine with that; I'm fine with it.  Dog would just have to deal.

I didn't think I was saying anything, but maybe something came across.  "Hey," he said.  "I mean it.  This isn't good for you, burying yourself alive back here.  You're in need of a just plain good time."

I don't even know what that would be, I blurted out, and he smiled.

"Guess we'd better find out," he said.