A Singular Witness

Disabled

Quinn watched as razor sharp blades pulverized the frozen fruit, soymilk, and protein powder she had measured into a blender pitcher, the mixture roiling in a vortex over the blades that churned at its center.  As she reached for a glass to pour the protein shake in, she noted how taut and slender her outstretched arm appeared, almost like a doll's arm.  Quinn had subsisted for weeks on protein shakes, spending almost every spare moment she had running from the real world in a virtual one, feeling increasingly like a hologram of her real self.

She sat on a bar stool at the island in the kitchen, drinking her shake and staring vacantly out into the backyard.  It suddenly occurred to her that she had forgotten to feed Alvin that morning.  Glancing up at the kitchen clock she realized it was just past one in the afternoon.  She walked back over to the counter and opened a small can of chopped beef.  Quinn collected Alvin's bowl from its spot beside the door on the back porch, and was surprised when the little bulldog did not come bounding across the yard to greet her as usual.  She wondered with a pang of guilt if he was giving her the cold shoulder, but assumed he could be roused to forgiveness by the smell of meat in his bowl.  Quinn measured out a few cups of dry food, added the can of chopped beef, and stirred them together before placing Alvin's bowl back in its customary spot.  She stood waiting on the porch for a few moments, but the little dog did not surface from any of his familiar haunts in the back yard.  Feeling uneasy, Quinn loudly called Alvin's name.

The little dog still did not appear.  Quinn walked quickly back into the house and found a pair of slippers.  Pulling them hastily on her feet, she strode out into the backyard in a loose fitting t-shirt, a pair of running shorts, and her house shoes. 

She walked over to look inside the small yellow house that stood on a bare patch of lawn.  It was empty.  The weather was warm for October, and it was bright outside.  Quinn traversed the parameter of the yard, peeking in all of the shady spots along the bases of the bushes and shrubs that lined the yard.  Alvin was nowhere to be found.

As she came around the yard along the fence line, Quinn realized that the gate was standing wide open.  Her shoulders slumped as she realized that the dog had clearly escaped from the yard, and she was discouraged to think that he may have been picked up, or that she might never see him again.  She remembered that he had a tag on his collar with the Moore's home address and number, and was somewhat relieved, though she was still anxious to find him.  She realized with a shudder that without Alvin she would be truly alone.

Quinn walked out of the backyard through the open gate, to the sidewalk that ran along the edge of the street.  She walked around her cul-de-sac calling Alvin's name but there was no sight of him.  None of the neighbors seemed to be at home.  The driveways of the houses that lined the street were all empty and their windows formed uniformly dark squares that contrasted with the bright light of the early afternoon.  She realized that most of them would be at work, and the children in school.  As she neared the end of the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street, she saw something lying in the driveway of the rental house that sat on the corner where the street intersected with the main road.  Walking over, Quinn's heart sank as she realized that the object she had spotted was Alvin's collar.

She leaned over to pick up the collar, looking around as she straightened up.  There was not a car in the driveway of the rental house, but it did look as though there might be lights on inside of the house.  Quinn recalled that she had seen someone moving in a few weeks before, and wondered if they were home.

Carrying Alvin's collar, Quinn walked tentatively up to the front door of the rental house and knocked.  She stood waiting for a few minutes, and just when she had turned to walk away she heard the door.  As she glanced back, it opened.