liven to work

---Jason---

#liven to work

I stand frozen at the Wheel-Trans drop-off point, completely transfixed by what I'm seeing. Northern Edge Survival School materializes before me not as the familiar collection of sounds and smells I've navigated for two years, but as an explosion of visual information that steals my breath away.

The main lodge—which I've entered hundreds of times—appears brand new. Rough-hewn timber glows amber-gold in the morning light. Sunlight catches on arched windows, creating prismatic flashes that dance across the snow. The stone chimney rises from the peaked roof, wisps of smoke uncurling into the crisp February air like living things.

I can't move. Twenty-eight years of nothing, and now this. I've built mental maps of Northern Edge through touch, sound, and descriptions from colleagues, though mostly through either curiosity or necessity. but reality overwhelms anything I could have constructed. The gravel beneath my boots isn't simply "small stones" but hundreds of individual pebbles in varying shades of gray, brown, and slate. The surrounding forest isn't just "trees" but complex entities with patterns of bark and intricate branch structures reaching toward the sky.

"You gonna stand there all day, Stone?" Mike Thompson's voice cuts through my daze.

I turn toward the sound and nearly lose my balance. So that's what Mike looks like. The compact, wiry man with perpetually windburned skin matches his voice perfectly—like he was assembled from hiking gear and beef jerky. His sun-bleached hair sticks out at odd angles beneath a wool beanie, and laugh lines crinkle around eyes that hold perpetual mischief.

"Just enjoying the weather," I manage to reply, falling into step beside him as we head toward the entrance.

Mike's eyebrows shoot up. "The weather? It's minus fifteen with wind chill that could freeze your nuts to a flagpole. Since when do you *enjoy* February in Toronto?"

*Since I found a homicidal magical woman on my doorstep who cured my lifelong blindness with her healing powers*, I think. *And now she's walking my dog and possibly considering whether my neighbors would taste good with salt, which I showed her. Well, the sault, not the naighbers.*

"Since I decided to take your advice and embrace the suck," I say instead.

Mike barks a laugh, slapping my shoulder hard enough to make me stumble. "Now you're getting it. Embrace the suck. Good man."

The main lodge's interior hits me like a physical force—warm amber light from overhead fixtures, wooden floors worn smooth by countless boots, the massive stone fireplace with actual flames dancing within it. A taxidermied moose head Dave killed himself with an axe looms above the fireplace, its glass eyes eerily lifelike. I've smacked my head against that thing at least twice, but seeing it is something else entirely.

"Stone!" Dave Erikson's booming voice carries across the room. "You're alive! We were about to send a search party. Or at least order you a pizza once you decided death wasn't worth the hastle and found you're way back."

I watch Dave stride toward us—all six-foot-four of him, built like a redwood with shoulders broad enough to block doorways. His salt-and-pepper beard juts forward as he grins, making him look like some Viking elder who's about to tell war stories around a fire. Behind him follows Carter Blackwood, whose military-straight posture and vigilant eyes mark him as the survival medicine instructor even before you notice the meticulously organized medical kit at his hip.

"I'm fine," I assure them. "Parents are in Mexaco, so it's just me and Dawson holding down the fort."

"Ah, Home Alone: Canadian Edition," Dave says with a wink. "Watch out for those wet bandits, eh? They'll be wearing toques and apologizing while they rob you blind."

*If they tried breaking in with Grace there, we'd be having a very different conversation right now,* I think, imagining the kind of "home security" that involves bone knives and throat-eating.

"More like Home Alone: Dawson Edition," Mike adds. "That dog would probably offer burglars some tea and your credit card information."

I smile, thinking of how Dawson immediately appointed himself Grace's personal lap-warmer. "He's discerning. Only lets in the good criminals."

*Like interdimensional knife-wielding women who might be psychopaths.*

Carter's lips twitch in what counts as his version of a smile. "Have you considered a security system that doesn't have fur and separation anxiety?"

"And miss out on my morning face-wash via dog tongue? Never." I look around, soaking in everything. My eyes catch on the equipment display where a familiar black-handled survival knife sits among other gear. I walk over and pick it up, the weight familiar in my palm.

Without thinking, I adjust my grip to the way Grace showed me last night—thumb not pressed against the spine but wrapped naturally around the handle, index finger extending slightly toward the guard without touching it, wrist relaxed instead of rigid.

"Huh," Dave says, appearing beside me with surprising stealth for such a large man. "When'd you change your grip style? That's more of a Fairbairn approach than what I showed you."

I freeze, suddenly aware I'm holding the knife exactly as Grace demonstrated. My mind races for an explanation that doesn't involve *"an interdimensional warrior woman kind of broke into my house and critiqued my knife skills while threatening to eat someone's throat when I grabbed her by the arm to bring her inside. Also, I think she likes Dawson.*

"YouTube," I blurt. "Found some tutorials."

Dave's eyebrow arches skeptically. "You've been watching knife-fighting videos on YouTube? You?"

*Crap. If I could physically see my foot right now which I can't because it's in my boot, it would be firmly lodged in my mouth.*

"Audiobooks were getting boring," I reply with a shrug, carefully replacing the knife. "Thought I'd branch out."

Dave studies me for a moment longer, then claps my shoulder with a hand roughly the size of a dinner plate. "Well, it's a good grip. More adaptable in a fight." He peers at my face. "You look different today. Get a haircut or something?"

*Or something. Like magically receiving sight after twenty-eight years of nothing. Just a minor life change, really.*

"Just slept well," I say, which isn't entirely a lie. Grace's sleeping draught had been remarkably effective, even if it had partly come from something called a frost weezel.

"Good for you," Dave says. "Because we've got three separate groups coming in this afternoon, and I need all their paperwork sorted before Carter traumatizes them with his field medicine scenarios."

Carter gives a small, satisfied smile. "Today is sucking chest wounds and improvised tourniquets."

"Charming as always, Carter," I say, backing toward the administrative office. "I'll get right on those forms."

The back office welcomes me with its familiar chaos—filing cabinets lining the walls, the ancient desktop computer humming on the desk, stacks of liability waivers waiting to be processed. I hang my coat, settle into my chair, and boot up the computer.

The screen flickers to life, displaying the Northern Edge logo. I stare at the screen, realizing with a sinking feeling that while I can see the screen itself, the text and anything else that's on said screen remains invisible. Granted, from yesterday I'd figured out that my new sight doesn't work with two-dimensional things like text or screens, but, well. Would have been nice to not have to use a screen reader like, well, a normal person.

"Well, that's inconvenient but also comforting" I mutter, reaching for my headphones and activating the screen reader software. The familiar synthesized voice begins reading my emails, starting with subject lines and sender information.

As I work through the morning's administrative tasks, my mind keeps circling back to Grace. Is she managing alright in my house? Has she figured out how to walk Dawson without being dragged across the neighborhood? Is she currently gutting one of my neighbors for looking at her funny? Did she get hungry and kill and eat a squirl?

I grimace at the thought. Grace doesn't seem the type to start trouble unprovoked, but her definition of "provocation" appears to include casual touches and possibly direct eye contact. And her solution to conflict involves disturbingly casual references to dismemberment. Also, well. From what she told me, I suspect that just killing and eating a squirl is easier than finding all the stuff in my kitchen. Especially if she's walking Dawson at the time.

*She's probably fine,* I tell myself, tabbing over to the participant spreadsheet. *She survived in some post-apocalyptic wilderness; she can handle suburban Toronto for a few hours. Probably.*

Mike pokes his head in around ten o'clock, steam rising from two mugs in his hands. "Coffee break," he announces, setting one mug on my desk. "Dave's in full bear-mode today. Some investment banker from Bay Street showed up for the Advanced course wearing Italian leather boots and complained they didn't match his North Face jacket."

I snort, accepting the mug gratefully. "Let me guess, Dave sent him to the equipment shed for the 'special' boots?"

"The ones filled with freezing slush? Yep." Mike leans against the filing cabinet, blowing on his coffee. "Guy's feet are gonna be blocks of ice within twenty minutes. Lesson in appropriate footwear."

"Dave does love his object lessons," I agree, taking a careful sip. The coffee burns my tongue, and I realize with a start that I can see the steam rising from the mug. Such a small thing, yet so novel.

Mike studies me over the rim of his mug. "You're different today."

*Crap. Is it that obvious?*

"Sleep deprivation," I deflect, focusing on my screen. "Makes me giddy."

"Nah, it's something else." Mike narrows his eyes. "You're... I dunno, moving differently. More precise."

I frantically search for a plausible explanation that isn't *"I drank a magic sleeping potion given to me by an interdimentional knife-wielding woman who appeared on my porch yesterday, and woke up feeling surprisingly refreshed."*

"Been doing some exercises," I offer lamely. "Core stability stuff."

Mike looks unconvinced but thankfuly drops the subject. "Carter needs the medical waivers for the afternoon group. They're doing the fake-blood extravaganza."

"Tell him they'll be ready by lunch." I turn back to my computer while hoping Mike will take the hint and leave before he notices anything else unusual that I'll have to explain with something other than 'interdimentional knife-wielding woman who healed my life-long blindness with her magical powers and is now liveing in my house. Also hopefuly not looking at my nabers like they'd be good with sault. Which I showed her. Sault, I mean.'

After Mike departs, I exhale slowly while slumping in my chair. Maintaining this, especially with those I care about, Dave, Mike, Carter and Raj though I haven't seen him yet today, so probably doing orienteering with one of the advanced military groups, is exhausting. I can't tell anyone what really happened—not without ending up in a psychiatric evaluation or worse, having Grace subjected to some kind of scientific study, and fuck that with a rusty fork, and not even because, Grace, being Grace, would not react well to being prodded and examined, and I suspect her response would involve a lot more murderizing than most research facilities can deal with on a good day, and not even takeing into account Grace's Vigger, so it wouldn't be a good day for the white-coats.

I strip off my headphones with a grunt before rubbing my temples. What is Grace doing right now? Is she carefully cataloging my neighborhood for tactical advantages? Teaching Dawson to hunt small game? Threatening the mailman? The possibilities are simultaneously amusing and alarming.

---

The lunch bell rings at precisely noon, startling me from my thoughts. I've finished processing all the morning paperwork, set up the afternoon registrations, and prepared Carter's medical waivers—all while my mind keeps wandering back to the woman currently in my house.

I save my files, put the computer to sleep, requiring my password to get into it now, and head for the staff lounge. The small room adjacent to the kitchen smells of microwaved leftovers and burnt coffee. Dave and Carter are already there, Carter meticulously cutting his sandwich into precise quadrants while Dave tears into what appears to be an entire roasted chicken while holding it by one leg.

"Stone!" Dave gestures to an empty chair with a half-eaten drumstick. "Join the carnage."

I retrieve my lunch bag from the communal refrigerator and take a seat. My sandwich—hastily prepared this morning—looks sad and slightly squashed. I unwrap it anyway, suddenly ravenous.

"So," Dave says between bites, "how's the solo bachelor life treating you? Wild parties? Exotic dancers? Eating ice cream straight from the container while in just a pair of shorts?"

*If only you knew*, I think, picturing Grace's face if I tried throwing a "wild party" in my house. I'd probably end up with severed limbs decorating my living room before she, while I was tied up, patiently explains why doing that had been a very, very un-tactical idea.

"Thrilling," I deadpan instead. "Last night I reorganized my sock drawer. Alphabetically. By material."

Mike enters, dropping into the remaining chair with a dramatic sigh. "Bay Street guy has blisters the size of toonies. Carter, you might want to stock up on extra bandages."

Carter doesn't look up from his precisely-quartered sandwich. "I have a designated 'idiots in inappropriate footwear' section in my med kit."

"Of course you do," Mike snorts, unwrapping his own lunch—what appears to be a burrito roughly the size of my forearm. "So, Stone, seriously—what's different? You seem... I dunno, centered today."

All three instructors turn to look at me, and I feel heat creeping up my neck. I take a large bite of sandwich to buy time, nearly choking in my haste, because that's all I fucking need today. Though, Carter would save me, he's fucking Carter Blackwood, no-one fucking dies in my fucking workplace, even if you think differently. Which is the first time I saw someone who was going to kill themselves in the flesh. Why they decided to come to a survival school to do it? Well, we've stopped trying to figure that out, and that was in my first three months working here. Decided to stay after that, even if I hadn't already decided with Dave, Mike, Carter and Raj being Dave, Mike, Carter and Raj.

"Nothing's different," I manage after swallowing. "Just, you know, enjoying the peace and quiet while my parents are away."

"Bullshit," Dave declares cheerfully. "You've got that look."

*Oh god, not this conversation.*

"What look?" I ask, since if I don't they'll just tell me anyway, there good guies like that.

Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

"The 'I met someone' look," Dave says, pointing his now compleatly cleaned chicken bone at me accusingly. "Seen it a thousand times. Who is she? Or he? Or they? No judgment here, Stone. You deserve happyness, out of all of us."

I sputter, coughing on a piece of sandwich that goes down wrong. Carter helpfully thumps me in the stomach, same I had done for Grace yesterday, though he does it with more force than probably necessary. Carter being Carter, it's his way of telling me to not do what I did to choke in the first place.

*Well, they're not entirely wrong*, I think as I struggle to breathe. *I did meet someone. A woman who carries bone knives, can see in the dark, and has possibly eaten people. Real girlfriend material there, Stone. Especially as she fundimentally doesn't do touch. Yeah, grate way to start a relationship when you fundimentally need it.*

"There's no one," I insist when I can breathe again. "Seriously, guys."

Mike peers at me like he does people's woodwork. "You sure? Because you've got that dopey 'someone's occupying my thoughts' expression."

"It's Dawson," I deflect. "We've entered a new phase in our relationship. He's stopped eating my shoes and graduated to my tax returns. Which means I can now tell the CRA that, a dog really did eat my tax forms. Not that it'll help, but still funny."

Dave laughs, but his eyes remain shrewd. "Alright, keep your secrets. But remember—" he points the now marrowless chicken bone at me "—we're professional survivalists. We notice things."

"Duly noted," I mutter, returning to my sandwich.

As lunch continues, conversation mercifully shifts to the afternoon classes and Carter's planned medical scenarios. I participate just enough to deflect suspicion, all while my mind circles back to Grace—a woman bound to me by a life-debt I don't really want but can't, and won't, just drop, not the way she told she would look upon herself as if I did, who also carries bone knives and speaks of cannibalism the same way I would talk about killing squirls or racoons that try to bite my face off.

*Just a normal Tuesday in Toronto*, I think wryly. *Nothing unusual happening here at all*.

---Grace---

# I walk the small canine

The small metal device weighs almost nothing in my palm, yet carries meaning I cannot fully decipher. I turn the key over, examining its jagged teeth and worn brass surface. Among my people, to grant access to one's dwelling is to acknowledge blood-bond or oath-sworn loyalty. Yet Jason handed this to me with casual ease, as though entrusting me with his shelter required no ceremony, no recognition of the significance such trust carries.

Dawson dances around my ankles, making small sounds of anticipation as I secure the door behind us. His leash—a complex mechanism of retractable cord and locking device—feels awkward in my hand. I've used tether lines for hunting foxes in winter, but this contraption serves a different purpose entirely. Not to restrain prey, but to protect a companion.

"Patience," I mutter when Dawson tugs sharply at the cord. The fabric of Jason's borrowed clothing feels strange against my skin—too soft, too yielding compared to my furs. The pants hang loose around my hips despite the drawstring pulled tight, and the heavy outer garment—a "jacket," Jason called it—smells faintly of him. Pine soap and something uniquely his, a scent I've already cataloged and stored alongside other survival information.

The street stretches before us, lined with identical dwellings that speak of rigid organization rather than organic growth. No evidence of defensive planning in their arrangement—no consideration for sight lines or strategic retreats. Just house after house, vulnerable and exposed. The inhabitants of this world must feel very secure to build with such disregard for basic protection from things that would rip them apart alive and screaming if they were on my world.

Dawson pulls again, practically vibrating with excitement as we move down what Jason called the "sidewalk." His nose twitches constantly, sampling scents I can only partially detect despite my own enhanced senses. His enthusiasm creates an odd sensation in my chest—not quite amusement, but something adjacent to it. There is honesty in his simple joy that I find... tolerable. If I was in a situation where I was starveing and could not find other food, I would not eat him.

A woman approaches from the opposite direction, her own dog straining at its leash. Her eyes widen slightly when she notices me, gaze lingering on my black hair before dropping to Dawson.

"Morning!" she calls with unnecessary volume. "You must be Jason's friend since you're walking Dawson? I'm Martha from three doors down." Her tone lilts upward at the end, transforming statement into question. The social dynamics here remain frustratingly opaque, something I will have to ask Jason about when he returns.

"I am Grace," I respond, keeping my face neutral. Best to provide minimal information until I understand local customs better.

"Oh! Lovely to meet you." Martha's smile widens, bareing teeth. "How long are you staying with Jason while his parents are in Mexico?"

Mexico. A location previously unknown to me, apparently significant enough that this Martha assumes I should recognize it. I file the knowledge away—Jason's parents absent, location: Mexico—while calculating my response.

"I am uncertain," I say honestly. The death oath binds me to Jason until he releases me from it or claims his due. The timeframe remains indeterminate.

"Well, it's nice of you to help with Dawson," Martha continues, seemingly undisturbed by my vague answer. "Jason usually has Rebecca walk him, but I heard she broke her hip last week. Terrible business, at her age."

I nod once, acknowledging her words without encouraging further conversation. Unfortunately, she misinterprets my gesture.

"Are you heading to the dog park? Dawson loves it there. Duke and I were just on our way." She gestures to her own animal, a large beast with excessive fur and drool.

"Dog park?" I repeat. The concept makes little sense. Dogs require exercise, not designated spaces for recreation. Yet Dawson's reaction to the words—ears perking, tail wagging with increased vigor—suggests this location holds significance for him.

"Oh, you have to go!" Martha's voice rises with enthusiasm. "It's just two blocks east, then one north. All the neighborhood dogs go there! Dawson will be miserable if you don't take him."

I consider the tactical advantages. A gathering place would provide opportunity to observe local behaviors, gather intelligence on the area's social dynamics, identify potential resources or threats. Dawson's visible excitement suggests this activity falls within my obligation to care for him properly during Jason's absence.

"Very well," I agree. "Two blocks east, one north."

"That's the spirit!" Martha exclaims, as if I've accomplished something noteworthy rather than simply stating a navigational fact. "We'll walk with you."

And so I find myself proceeding toward this "dog park" with Martha maintaining a steady stream of one-sided conversation beside me. Her topics range from weather patterns (unseasonably warm for February, apparently) to local politics (someone named Ford making decisions she disapproves of) to various residents' personal business (someone named Hari is divorcing his wife after twenty years). I absorb the information methodically, sorting potential intelligence from irrelevant noise.

"So how do you know Jason?" Martha asks as we turn east at the intersection. "College friends? Work colleagues?"

I consider possible responses. The truth—that I arrived from another reality, nearly died on his doorstep, and am now bound to him by a death oath after magically granting him sight—seems inadvisable. Yet I find the idea of fabrication distasteful. The druid taught that needless lies create unnecessary complications.

"We met recently," I say, which is technically true. "I needed shelter. He provided it."

Martha's eyebrows rise. "Oh! How... charitable of him." Her tone shifts, carrying undertones I cannot fully interpret. "Well, Jason's always been a sweet boy. Very helpful."

Before I can decode her meaning, Dawson lunges forward with surprising strength, nearly yanking the leash from my hand. Ahead, a fenced area comes into view, containing numerous dogs and their human companions. The cacophony of barks, yips, and human chatter assaults my sensitive hearing. Dawson's excitement escalates to frantic levels, his entire body wiggling with anticipation.

"See? He knows where we are," Martha laughs. "The park's been here since before Jason's family moved to the neighborhood. Dawson's practically grown up here."

The "park" consists of a large fenced area with sparse trees and several wooden benches. Humans cluster in small groups while their animals chase each other in seemingly random patterns. I observe that all dogs within the enclosure move freely without restraints, while those outside remain tethered.

Martha leads us to a gate in the fence, unclipping her dog's leash before opening it. The large animal immediately bounds inside to join the chaos. Martha looks at me expectantly.

"You can let him off-leash inside," she explains when I don't move. "That's the whole point of a dog park."

I study the area, calculating risks and benefits. The fence appears sturdy enough to prevent escape. Multiple exit points provide tactical advantages. The other humans seem unconcerned about potential conflicts between animals.

After watching several more arrivals perform the same ritual—enter gate, remove leash, release dog—I cautiously unhook Dawson's restraint. He explodes forward like an arrow released from a fully drawn bow, racing toward a cluster of smaller dogs with a joyful bark that bears no resemblance to his usual vocalizations.

"First time at a dog park?" Martha asks, misinterpreting my careful observation as hesitation.

"Yes," I reply simply, still tracking Dawson's movement through the churning mass of animals. His golden fur stands out among the darker coats, allowing me to maintain visual contact despite the chaos.

"Well, come on," Martha gestures toward a group of humans gathered near a bench. "No sense standing here alone. The girls would love to meet you."

The "girls" turn out to be five women of varying ages, all watching the dogs with casual attention while engaged in animated conversation. Martha introduces me with unnecessary enthusiasm.

"Everyone, this is Grace! She's staying with Jason Stone while Bearee and Magnen are in Mexico."

This announcement produces immediate and disproportionate interest. Five pairs of eyes turn to assess me, expressions ranging from polite curiosity to barely concealed excitement.

"Jason Stone has a houseguest?" A woman with the kind of vibrantly red hair that would get her eaten within about five seconds by frostwolves on my world leans forward. "The same Jason Stone who barely speaks to anyone besides Dawson and his computer, even with his parents and brothers home?"

"Hush, Caroline," admonishes an older woman with steel-gray hair. She extends a hand toward me. "I'm Elaine Crawford. I've known Jason since he was a boy. I'm good friends with his mother."

I accept the handshake briefly, having observed this greeting ritual during my walk with Martha. The woman's grip is firm but not challenging—different from the warrior's clasp of my world, where pressure communicates status and intention.

"Grace is a friend of Jason's," Martha supplies when I remain silent. "Isn't that right, dear?"

"Jason provided shelter when I required it," I repeat my earlier explanation, seeing no reason to elaborate.

This simple statement produces an eruption of meaningful glances and subtle gestures among the women. Their body language and various scents suggest they've drawn conclusions beyond the literal meaning of my words, though I am not practissed enough with this world's social structures to gather more than that. Another question for Jason, then.

"How lovely," says a thin woman with excessively large earrings that would be used to drag her, screaming, into the maw of a frost bear to be consumed alive on my world, but seemingly serves some purpus here. "Jason's such a sweet young man. Always so polite, though a bit... withdrawn. I'm Diane, by the way."

"Very smart boy," adds another whose name I've already forgotten. "Bearee says he's brilliant with computers. Works for that survival school, doesn't he?"

I nod once, confirming this piece of information while continuing to track Dawson through the crowd of animals. He appears to be engaged in some form of chase game with a smaller black dog, both running in elaborate patterns that serve no obvious purpose beyond expenditure of energy.

"So, Grace," Caroline leans closer, her voice dropping conspiratorially. "How long have you and Jason been dating?"

The question creates a momentary disconnect between my ears and brain. Dating? The term holds no meaning in my reality, though context suggests some form of relationship beyond mere acquaintance.

"We are not 'dating,'" I clarify. "I arrived recently. He provided shelter. I am now helping with his dog while he works. That is all."

Six pairs of eyes study me with obvious disbelief. I remember what Jason said about ripping out throats.

"Honey," Diane says, patting my arm with unwarranted familiarity, "a young man doesn't just give a woman a key to his house because she needs shelter. Especially not a woman who looks like you."

I resist the urge to remove her hand from my arm, and possibly hers. Such a response would likely violate local social protocols. Instead, I step slightly back, breaking contact without obvious aggression. If she attempts such contact again...

"You misunderstand the arrangement," I state flatly. "There is no romantic involvement."

The women exchange looks again, communicating in some silent language I cannot decipher.

"Of course, dear," Elaine says with a smile that contradicts her words. "It's really none of our business anyway."

But their scents tell a different story—curiosity, excitement, speculation. They do not believe me, and worse, they seem determined to continue this line of inquiry. A tactical retreat becomes necessary.

"Where can one find the creek?" I ask, deliberately changing the subject. Jason had mentioned wanting to know its location, and water sources are always valuable intelligence.

"The ravine?" Elaine points northeast. "Just past the elementary school. You can't miss it—there's a path down behind the playground. Dawson loves it down there, though Jason rarely takes him since the terrain is a bit challenging without sight."

I nod, filing away this information. "Dawson and I will go there after the park."

"Oh, you're not leaving already?" Martha sounds disappointed. "We've barely gotten to know you."

"Dawson has received adequate exercise," I observe, watching as he flops dramatically onto his side, tongue lolling while the black dog circles him. "We will continue our exploration elsewhere."

I move toward Dawson before they can protest further, their disappointment evident in both expressions and scents. The social dynamics here are exhausting—so many unspoken rules, so many assumptions based on factors I cannot fully grasp. In my world, relationships are defined by clear bonds—blood, clan, oath. Here, people seem to weave complex narratives from the simplest interactions.

Dawson protests briefly when I reattach his leash, looking longingly at his playmates. But he follows willingly enough as we exit the enclosure, his initial burst of energy spent.

"The creek," I remind him, though he cannot understand my words. "We go to find water."

Surprisingly, Dawson seems to comprehend something of my intent. When we reach the school Elaine mentioned, he pulls confidently toward a worn dirt path descending into a small wooded area. The change from the organized grid of human dwellings to this pocket of natural growth is abrupt and welcome. Trees—though oddly uniform in size and spacing—provide cover. The sound of moving water grows stronger as we descend.

The "creek" turns out to be a modest waterway, perhaps three meters across at its widest point. Its banks show signs of artificial reinforcement—large stones placed with obvious human intention rather than natural erosion patterns. Still, the water flows clear and swift, a potential resource worth noting.

Dawson leads the way along a path that parallels the water, his steps confident on terrain he clearly knows well. For the first time since arriving in this world, I feel something approaching comfort. The rhythmic sound of flowing water, the filtering of sunlight through branches, the scent of damp earth—these things translate across realities. These things I understand.

When Dawson stops to investigate a particularly interesting tree root, I take the opportunity to create a mental map of our route, calculating distance and orientation relative to Jason's dwelling. The creek flows roughly northwest to southeast, curving gently through terrain that drops approximately twenty-three meters from the street level. Multiple paths climb back to the residential area, providing alternative routes if necessary.

Water, shelter, potential food sources in the form of small animals—this ravine could serve as a temporary survival location if circumstances required it. I file this knowledge away alongside other tactical information.

By the time we complete our circuit of the ravine and climb back to street level, Dawson's pace has slowed considerably. His tongue lolls from the side of his mouth, and his earlier boundless energy has transformed into a steady, methodical walk. He leads us unerringly back toward Jason's house, requiring minimal guidance from me. An intelligent animal, capable of complex spatial navigation—no wonder Jason values him.

As we approach the familiar dwelling, I find myself hesitating at the entrance. The key sits heavy in my pocket, its significance still troubling. Among my people, to enter another's shelter uninvited is a grave transgression. Yet Jason has explicitly granted me permission, provided the physical tool to do so, and Dawson clearly expects to enter his home.

I withdraw the key slowly, examining it once more before inserting it into the lock. The mechanism turns smoothly, tumblers clicking into place with precise engineering. A twist of my wrist, and the barrier between outside and inside disappears.

Dawson pushes past me immediately, making a beeline for his water dish in the kitchen. I close the door behind us, securing it with the same deadbolt Jason used. The interior feels different without his presence—quieter, yet somehow still carrying traces of him. His scent lingers in the air, mixed with the artificial cleansing agents used on the floors and surfaces.

I remove Dawson's leash and collar, hanging them on the hook Jason used earlier. The dog, freshly hydrated, trots into the living room and jumps onto the couch, looking at me expectantly. After a moment's consideration, I follow, settling onto the cushions beside him.

Immediately, Dawson shifts position, climbing into my lap with a huff before settling. His weight settles across my thighs, warm and surprisingly comforting. My hand moves to stroke his fur without conscious decision, fingers finding a rhythm that seems to please us both.

Something inside me loosens as I continue the repetitive motion. Muscles I didn't realize were tense begin to relax. My breathing slows, deepens. The strange, constant vigilance required by this unfamiliar world recedes slightly, replaced by something approaching calm.

This reaction requires analysis. Why does this simple contact produce such notable physiological changes? Is it merely the warmth of another living being, or something specific to this animal's presence? Perhaps I should ask Jason when he returns. He seems to experience similar effects when interacting with Dawson.

My thoughts are interrupted by a sudden, insistent growl from my stomach. The sound seems unnaturally loud in the quiet room, and I press a hand against my abdomen as if to silence it. Hunger, again. My vigger usage since arriving—healing Jason's eyes, fortifying my own body against the cold—has depleted my energy reserves significantly.

I should eat. Jason's "refrigerator" contains adequate supplies to prepare simple nutrition. The morning's egg preparation proved I could operate his cooking devices without difficulty. Dawson's weight across my legs creates a momentary tactical problem—moving would disturb him, yet remaining hungry serves no practical purpose.

Before I can decide, a sharp sound breaks the silence—three rapid knocks against the front door. Dawson's head jerks up, eyes bright, entire body suddenly alert. He launches himself from my lap with surprising speed, racing toward the entrance while emitting a series of sharp barks.

I rise more slowly, hand automatically checking the bone combat blade at my hip—still there, concealed beneath Jason's oversized shirt. The knocking repeats, more insistent this time. Dawson's barking intensifies, his entire body vibrating with excitement rather than aggression.

Friend, then. Or at least, someone Dawson recognizes as non-threatening.

I move toward the door, calculating possible scenarios. Most likely another neighbor, perhaps one of the women from the park come to continue their intrusive questioning. Potentially a delivery of goods, though I've seen no evidence Jason was expecting anything. Possibly someone connected to Jason's absent parents, checking on the property during their absence.

Dawson looks up at me, tail wagging furiously, clearly expecting me to open the barrier. I rest my hand on the doorknob, considering my options as the knocking sounds again.

Time to face whatever new complexity this world has decided to present me with today.

I resisting the urge to twist the woman's limb into a painful lock to hammer home why that was unwise,