The Saviour
There were just sixty miles left when the car’s headlights lit up a red hatchback parked on the shoulder, bonnet raised. A young man stood beside it, waving his arms enthusiastically. Pulling over on a deserted road at night was reckless at best, but the sky ahead was lightening with dawn, and the distance left was nothing. Ethan stopped the car and stepped out. Before he’d taken two steps, a sharp blow struck the back of his head.
He came to with someone’s hand rummaging through his pockets. He tried to rise, but a heavy weight pinned him down—probably more than one attacker, judging by the boot that slammed into his ribs. The blinding pain wrenched a cry from him.
Then the kicks came from all sides. Curled on the tarmac, knees to his chest, arms shielding his head, Ethan couldn’t stop the next brutal strike to his ribs. The agony swallowed him whole.
When consciousness returned, he heard whimpering nearby. At first, he thought it was him. The beating had stopped. He shifted—then a wet nose nudged his cheek. Blinking, he saw a dog’s wary muzzle hovering above him. He tried to sit, but the stabbing pain in his side stole his breath. “Broken rib,” he realised. His thoughts slogged through cotton wool, slow and thick. The dog whined again.
The next time he woke, he was in a moving car—engine humming, his body jolting over bumps.
“Coming round? Nearly at the hospital, lad. Hold on.” The voice was genderless through the fog.
Ethan’s eyelids were leaden. He let them stay shut, exhaustion dragging him under. A jolt roused him. Now he was being carried. Light seared his vision, and his forehead throbbed.
“Awake at last,” said a bright, girlish voice.
Ethan cracked his eyes open. Blurred faces swam under fluorescent lights. Nausea surged. Movement stopped. A face leaned close—sharp-featured, framed by a neat white beard.
“Name, son? Remember what happened?” The words sounded distant.
“Ethan Cooper. I was… robbed,” he managed, his lips stubbornly numb.
“Right. Took quite a thrashing.”
“Car…?”
“None nearby. Just this dog. He saved you. Rest now.” The old man patted his shoulder, and Ethan obediently slipped back into sleep.
Next time he woke, the headache had dulled. Muffled voices murmured nearby.
“You’re with us. Excellent. Hear me? I’m Inspector Carter from the Met. Can you speak?”
Ethan did—haltingly recounting the ambush, describing his stolen car…
“This your dog?”
“I don’t own one,” Ethan frowned.
“Driver who called the ambulance said this mutt leapt from the woods into his path. Led him straight to you in a ditch—completely hidden from the road. Without him, you’d still be there. Sign here.” A clipboard appeared. Ethan scrawled his name and collapsed back.
“What’s… wrong with me?”
“You’re alive. That’s the main thing. Two broken ribs, concussion, bruises galore.”
“That’s enough for today. He’s knackered,” the doctor interjected.
Exhaustion swallowed Ethan again.
He woke to dappled shadows dancing on the ceiling. Nausea swirled, but his thoughts were clearer now—the roadside stop, the attack…
Morning light and birdsong greeted him next.
“Better? Fancy standing?” The bearded doctor grinned.
With help, Ethan sat up. The room steadied. Pale blue walls, a bedside table. The doctor, white-coated and vaguely elfish with that beard, hovered supportively. Bandages constricted Ethan’s chest, but the pain had eased.
Soon, he stood by the window overlooking the hospital garden.
“See? Under the oak—your dog. Been waiting,” a nurse said.
“Not mine.”
“Could’ve fooled us. Refuses to leave, growls if shooed. Won’t eat unless we’re gone.”
The dog sat sentinel, watching passersby. Too weak to linger, Ethan returned to bed.
Next day, he ventured outside. The dog spotted him but stayed put—waiting.
“Was it you? Cheers, mate.” Ethan ruffled the dog’s ears. A tail thumped twice. They sat together on a bench until Inspector Carter approached.
The dog retreated slightly.
“Improving, I see. Doesn’t care for coppers, this one.”
More questions followed.
“Professional job, your car’s likely stripped by now. Need a ride home?”
“Can’t take him on the bus.” Ethan nodded at the dog. “Taxi, if you’d lend me the fare?”
“Keeping him, eh? Wise. Did some digging. His owner died overseas. Mum passed soon after. Dog’s alone. Taxi’d cost a fortune—I’ll arrange a lift.”
In the patrol car, the chatty driver marvelled, “Whole town’s talking ‘bout you two! Wish I had a dog like—”
The dog ignored him. Ethan felt like an accidental footnote in his rescuer’s legend.
Home at last, the aroma of roast beef welcomed them.
“In you go,” Ethan urged, opening the door.
The dog froze.
From the kitchen emerged Lucy, floral apron tied over her dress.
“Hello! Knew you’d be back today.” She offered her cheek, then gasped at the dog planted on the doormat.
“Who’s this?”
“Meet Sunny. He lives with us now.”
Lucy paled, stepping back. Ethan remembered her childhood dog bite, the rabies shots, her lifelong terror.
She flung her apron aside.
“Are you serious? You brought a dog here?” Hysteria climbed her voice.
“Lu, he saved my life. I couldn’t—”
“Move him!”
Sunny sidestepped, clearing her path. Pressing against the doorframe, Lucy fled, heels clattering down the stairs.
Ethan let her go.
They ate the roast together—man and dog.