Don’t Make Me Turn This Life Around by Pagán, Camille (dar e dil novel online reading .txt) 📕

I looked around Milagros’ kitchen before slowly crouching down. Then I crawled to the cupboard and retrieved a frying pan. Still low to the ground, I crouched in the corner and listened. The scratching had stopped.

Suddenly a sharp yell rang through the air.

Except it wasn’t yelling at all. It was a bark.

“Crap,” I muttered. I’d promised Milagros I’d care for her dogs, and what did I do instead? Molly Maid-ed the entire place while the dogs were probably out there gnawing on each other for sustenance.

When I unlocked the dead bolt and peered outside, Pedro was peering up at me with his one eye, as if to say, “Are you done freaking out and ready to feed me?”

I examined him for a moment, then opened the door. Pedro stuck his head through the doorway and glanced around—looking for Milagros, no doubt. Then he trotted inside.

“Make yourself at home, Cujo,” I muttered, following behind him. “Sorry to disappoint you, but the woman you’re looking for is approaching Fajardo right now.” But as soon as I said this, I felt tears pricking my eyes. Was she? Or were they all stranded in the Atlantic—or worse, sinking toward the bottom of it?

“Of course they’re about to dock,” I said, as though Pedro was the one who’d put this thought inside my head. “How horrible to even put that kind of energy out into the universe.”

It occurred to me that I was talking to a one-eyed dog. It was better than a volleyball with a face painted on it—but still.

I’d ended up back in the kitchen, though I hadn’t remembered walking there, and Pedro plopped down right in front of my feet and cocked his head, like he was listening. Maybe that’s why I added, “I’m not really used to being alone, if you must know. You’re welcome to stick around if you want to.”

He whimpered a little.

“You’re hungry, right?” I said, and he barked. In spite of everything, I laughed. “I’ll take that as a yes. We’re low on food over here, but I think Milagros has some dog food, and lucky for you, I have a key so I can feed you. Come on,” I said, like he was one of my kids.

I found the food in a far cupboard and put it in a bowl, but when I set the bowl in front of him, he plopped down on his hindquarters.

“She doesn’t let you eat inside, does she? And you’re not some dumb puppy, either. You’ve been around the block a few times.” I eyed him. He had a white little dog beard and—well, maybe this is a strange way to describe a dog, but he had an aura of knowing about him. “If I had to guess, you’re probably forty-seven in dog years. Midlife isn’t for the faint of heart, am I right?” I said.

He looked down at his paws, then back up at me.

“All right,” I said, picking up the bowl. “Let’s go outside. When you’re done, I’ll feed your friends.”

I let us both out the back door and set the bowl in front of him on the patio. I’d say he ate the whole thing, but really, he inhaled it; the bowl was empty before I heard a single crunch. He glanced at me and licked his lips, or whatever it is dogs have over their fangs. Then he darted under a hole in the fence that I hadn’t noticed before.

“Hey! Dine and dash isn’t allowed around here!” I called after him, but he was already gone.

He was just a dog—I knew that—but I felt horribly alone after he left. I went to see if the other dogs were out front, but even after I waited on the porch and called for them, they didn’t appear. After some internal debate I left a couple bowls of food on the front porch, though I had a feeling that the iguanas would make a meal of it, and went back to Milagros’ to finish wiping down the shutters.

Ten minutes later I was done, so I returned to the guesthouse. Without a fan running or air-conditioning, the air was oppressively hot, and though I had no way to tell time, the position of the sun suggested to me that there were hours to go before it set. Attempting to relax was out of the question; when I sat on the patio to try to read one of the novels stocked in the guesthouse the words blurred, and I found myself imagining Charlotte’s meter with a deadly number across the screen, and Milagros clutching her heart and keeling over. After ten or so minutes of this—or who knows, maybe it was an hour—I finally gave up and went back inside to arm myself so I could go for a walk.

I chose a fork with sharp-looking tines, stuck it in my pocket, locked the door, and then headed out.

Milagros didn’t live in a neighborhood, not in a traditional sense; instead, the homes along her stretch of the southern coast were on large lots, each set back several hundred feet from the main road. It was eerie seeing so few cars out, and though I didn’t wander onto anyone’s property, I couldn’t hear a single person, either. I supposed I’d been looking to see if anyone needed help—or maybe I was just hoping to see another human being.

No such luck. But I probably would have kept walking if I hadn’t started getting woozy. I’d never been the kind of person who had to be reminded to eat, but then again, I’d never had to send my family across the ocean without me, and so I hadn’t had a single morsel of food since the night before. I turned and began to walk back, hoping I wouldn’t pass out before I got home.

I was nearly at Milagros’ when Pedro came shooting out of the bushes. His little legs were going so fast I thought for sure he was going