the ground that you can easily twist your ankle in it, Atlas and I make our way back to the beach. He seems incredibly agile for a child of his age, and I imagine he’s spent a lot of time on the water, or near it. “Do you go out fishing with your dad?”
His face lights up, his cheeks pink from the cold wind coming off the ocean. “Yep. I used to go out with them. Now I go to stupid school.”
“It’s not so bad. School will be over before you know it.”
I help him off the last set of jagged rocks, and he stops walking on the beach, his feet buried up to the tops of his shoes. “I once got to gaff a tuna. It almost pulled me over.”
“I bet you’re a good fisherman,” I tell him.
Up the beach, a black lab runs up to us, soaked in seawater and wiggling with excitement when he spots Atlas. He reaches out to touch the dog, his hands, and now his jacket wet. “Whose dog is this?”
I glance up, scanning the beach. People let their dogs run wild out here all the time and usually lose them a time or two. “Not sure.”
The dog is overly excited at Atlas’s attention, wiggling and licking. “Can I keep him if he doesn’t have a dad?”
Do you notice the way he doesn’t say mom? I do. That’s, sadly, his reality now. I look up again. There’s nobody on the beach. “Let’s get him some water.”
“And then I can keep him?” he asks, walking forward a step to see if the dog will follow. Of course he does, practically pummeling Atlas in the process. “I really want a dog. I’m gonna name him Coho. Like the salmon my dad fishes for.”
I love that he’s constantly thinking of Lincoln.
The dog follows us to the bar, all the while never allowing an inch of space between him and Atlas. I sneak in the back and grab a bowl and water. Atlas insists on feeding him. “He looks hungry.”
“I don’t have any dog food. Think he likes bacon?”
Atlas grins. “Who doesn’t like bacon?”
So we give him bacon. Coho, as Atlas refers to him now, turns his nose up at it.
“That’s weird.” Atlas quirks an eyebrow at me, bent down sitting next to the dog. “Maybe he’s vegan?”
I chuckle. I can tell he used to live near Portland. “Or he’s used to dog food. I’ll run up to the drug store. I bet Corky has some in stock.”
Atlas stands, brushing off his knees. “Can I come with you?”
“Sure.”
He reaches for my hand. “Stay, Coho. We’ll be back.” Naturally, the first step Atlas takes, the dog follows and licks his cheek. “I think he likes me too much.”
I know the feeling. I think I like this kid too much. We get him dog food, and he eats it like he hasn’t had a meal in days. Which confirms my theory that someone either lost him at the beach, and he just kept running, or they dropped him off knowing he’d find someone. It wouldn’t be the first time someone left an animal in town.
Fletcher finds us outside the coffee shop across the street, the dog next to us as we drink hot chocolate.
Atlas grabs his hand. “Look, Papa. I have a dog now.”
Fletcher smiles. “I see that. And hot chocolate with your marshmallows.”
Leaning forward on the chair, I cup my hands around the warm mug in my hands. “He had the barista count out ten exactly.”
“Looks like your dad is coming,” Fletcher notes, motioning toward the docks to our left. Running his hand over his jaw, his attention lands on the dog. “I wonder if they caught anything.”
My heart jolts with anticipation of seeing him again, the details of our time together surfacing. I turn in the chair, my eyes watering from the wind. I think of the way his body felt against mine, the way he lifted his head and gazed at me with sated eyes. I hadn’t seen that look until yesterday when I fell asleep next to him. In those moments, I felt like he belonged to me.
“Can I go on the docks?” Atlas asks Fletcher.
He nods. “Sure. Let’s go see if they caught anything worth keeping.”
The moment Atlas moves, the dog jolts up from his place next to him, his tail wagging. I walk next to Fletcher, Atlas running ahead of us, and Coho close behind. I’m so nervous the dog is going to jump