The Saviour
Only a hundred miles remained when the car’s headlights swept over a crimson vehicle parked on the shoulder, its bonnet raised. Beside it stood a young man, waving his arms frantically. Stopping on a desolate road at night was sheer recklessness, but the sky ahead had lightened with the promise of dawn, and the journey was nearly over. Oliver pulled over and stepped out. He hadn’t taken two steps when a brutal blow crashed against the back of his skull.
He awoke to fingers rifling through his pockets. He tried to rise, but a heavy weight pinned him down. There must have been several attackers—a boot slammed into his ribs, wringing an animal howl from his throat.
Then the beating came from all sides. Kicks rained down. Oliver curled into a ball, knees to chest, arms shielding his head. A strike to his right ribcage seared with white-hot agony, and darkness swallowed him again.
When he stirred, a whimper escaped nearby. For a delirious moment, he thought it was his own. The assault had stopped. Oliver shifted, and a wet nose nudged his cheek. He cracked his eyes open to see the wary muzzle of a dog looming above him. He tried to sit up, but a stabbing pain in his side stole his breath. “Broken rib,” he realised. His thoughts slogged through cotton wool. The dog whined again.
Next time he woke, the rumble of an engine hummed beneath him, his body jostling on uneven tarmac.
“Awake, then? Nearly in town—hang in there, lad.” He couldn’t tell if the voice belonged to a man or a woman.
Oliver’s eyelids were leaden. He didn’t fight it. Exhaustion dragged him under, until a jolt yanked him back. Now he was being carried. Light lanced through his vision, blinding, and his forehead throbbed.
“You’re with us,” chimed a young woman’s voice.
He blinked. A face swam in and out of focus under flickering lights. Dizziness surged, bile rising in his throat. Movement ceased. The face leaned closer—sharp now. An old man with a wedge-shaped silver beard studied him.
“Your name, young man? Do you remember what happened?” The voice echoed from far away.
“Oliver Whitman. I was—” His split lips barely obeyed, but they understood.
“Aye. You took quite the thrashing.”
“My car—” Oliver gasped. Every breath drove a knife into his side.
“No car nearby. Just this dog. He saved you. Rest now—sleep.” The old man’s command sent him under at once.
When Oliver woke next, the headache had dulled. Muffled voices murmured nearby.
“He’s up. Good. Can you hear me? I’m Inspector Harris with the Metropolitan Police. Can you speak? I’ve questions for you.”
Oliver listened—maybe even answered. He recounted stopping, the beating, his car’s registration…
“Is this your dog?”
“I don’t have one,” Oliver said, bewildered.
“The driver who called the ambulance swore a dog darted from the woods, straight under his wheels. He stopped, and the hound led him to a ditch where you lay. Hidden from the road. Without him, you’d still be there. Right. Sign here.” A form materialised before him; a pen pressed into his fingers. He scrawled his name and collapsed back.
“What’s wrong with me?”
“You’re alive—that’s what matters. Two cracked ribs, a busted head, bruises galore.”
“Enough for today. He’s spent. Return tomorrow,” the familiar voice decreed.
Oliver agreed. Fatigue swallowed him whole.
He awoke in darkness. Leaf shadows danced on the ceiling, spinning his head, twisting his stomach. He shut his eyes. But his mind cleared. The roadside stop came back—
Morning light and birdsong greeted him next. Strength had returned.
“There we are. Fancy standing?” The wedge-bearded doctor smiled.
“Yes.” Oliver’s voice surprised him.
“Easy does it.” The doctor steadied his elbow, guiding him upright. “Now sit. Rest. Dizzy? No? Swing your legs down. Grand.”
The room settled. A small ward, pale blue walls, a nightstand. The doctor, white-coated and cap perched like an old-time physician, hovered nearby. Bandages constricted Oliver’s chest, but the pain had faded.
“Next time, we’ll try walking,” the doctor said brightly.
Oliver did walk. Each step revived him. He reached the window. Below stretched a hospital garden, sparse benches lining narrow paths.
“See? Under the oak? Your dog. Waits for you,” a nurse said behind him.
“I don’t own a dog.” Oliver turned.
“We thought he was yours. Shoo him off, he snarls. Sits there dawn till dusk. We’ve fed him scraps—won’t touch ’em till we’re gone.”
The dog sat sentinel under the tree, tracking passersby. Oliver couldn’t stand long. He retreated to bed.
Next day, he ventured out. The dog watched but didn’t approach—waiting.
“Was it you? Cheers, mate.” Oliver scratched between its ears. The tail thumped twice.
He shuffled to a bench. The dog settled nearby.
They basked until Inspector Harris appeared. At the sight of him, the dog sidled away but stayed close.
“You’re mending. Doesn’t care for coppers, this one,” Harris chuckled.
More questions followed.
“We’ve alerts out, but no trace of your car. Get well. I’ll update you.” Harris left, and the dog crept back.
Next day, Oliver brought uneaten lunch—a sausage. The dog sniffed, eyed him, then devoured it.
“Sorry, that’s all. Where’s your home? Why not go back?” The dog cocked its head. “Suppose you’ve a story too, eh?”
Patients and nurses smiled at the pair. Their tale had spread.
“Your saviour! Clever boy. Taking him home?” a strolling patient asked.
“Dunno. Might have an owner. Doesn’t look stray.”
“Stays put—reckons you’re his now.”
Oliver studied the dog. What would happen at discharge? The creature was clever, disciplined. Had flung itself at wheels to save him. Led rescuers to the ditch. To abandon him now? Unthinkable.
“Fancy coming with me?” Oliver ruffled its head.
A tongue darted out, licking his hand.
“Blimey. Understand me, do you? Never been a dog man. Useless owner, me.”
Days passed. The loyal hound kept vigil. Oliver recalled a Stephen King tale—*The Sun Dog*. This one wasn’t sinister, just gold-furred.
“Need a name. Fancy ‘Sunny’? Too twee? How ’bout ‘Sol’? Suit you?”
The dog pawed the ground, wagging.
“Sol it is. Here, Sol!” Oliver patted his knee.
The dog bounded over, eyes eager for command.
“Well, I’ll be,” Oliver muttered.
Bruises faded. Stubble framed his jaw. He wondered what Emily would think. They’d lived together briefly before quarrels drove them back to casual dating. Oddly, he didn’t miss her.
Discharge day arrived. Paperwork in hand, cleaned clothes donned, Oliver stepped outside. Sol waited at the entrance like a loyal squire.
Oliver approached, glancing back. Faces watched from windows. Sol was a hero. Now it was Oliver’s turn. He’d already decided.
“Right, Sol. Discharged. You’re a legend. They expect me to measure up. Shall we?” He eyed the windows. “If you’ve nowhere else… come on, then.”
He strode down the path, feeling eyes on his back. Sol trotted beside him, glancing up. First stop: the police station.
“Out-of-towners, likely. Car’s probably stripped. Doubt we’ll find it,” Inspector Harris said. “Off home? Need bus fare?”
“Won’t allow dogs. Taxi, if you can lend the quid. Robbed, remember.”
“Taking him, then? Good lad. Made enquiries. Owner died overseas. Mum followed from grief. Dog’s alone. Taxi’s dear—hang on, I’ll sort a ride.”
They rode a patrol van’s back seat, the chatty driver gushing,
“Whole town’s talking. Wish I had a dog like—”
Sol sat serene. Oliver felt a shadow undeserving of the hero’s glow.
At journey’s end, Oliver thanked the driver and led Sol home. The flat’s corridor smelled of roasting meat.
“Well? In you go,” Oliver said, opening the door.
Sol froze on the threshold. Emily emerged from the kitchen, flowery apron tied over her dress.
“Hello! Knew you’d come today. Made a welcome feast.” She offered her cheek, then spotted Sol.
“—Who’s *that*?” Her eyes widened.
“Meet Sol. He lives with me now. *Us*,”As the door clicked shut behind Emily’s hasty exit, Oliver turned to Sol and sighed, “Looks like it’s just us now, mate,” before heading to the kitchen to share his portion of the abandoned roast with the only companion who’d never let him down.
