The Saviour
Only about sixty miles remained when his headlights lit up a red car pulled over with its bonnet up. A young man stood beside it, waving his arms urgently. Stopping on a deserted road at night was reckless, but the sky ahead had already begun to lighten with the approaching dawn, and the drive was nearly over. Roman pulled over and stepped out. Before he could take two steps, a blow to the back of his head sent him crashing to the ground.
He came to as someone rifled through his pockets. He tried to move, but a heavy weight pinned him down. There must have been more than one attacker—a boot slammed into his ribs, and he howled in agony.
The beating didn’t stop. Kicks rained down from all sides. Roman curled into a ball, knees to his chest, arms shielding his head. A crack to his right side sent white-hot pain through him, and darkness swallowed him again.
When he woke, a faint whimper sounded beside him. He thought it might be his own groaning. The blows had stopped. He shifted slightly, and a wet nose nudged his cheek. Blinking his eyes open, he saw a dog peering down at him. He tried to sit up, but a sharp stab in his ribs stole his breath. “Broken,” he realised. His thoughts slogged through his mind like sludge. The dog whined again.
The next time he woke, the hum of an engine and the sway of a moving car told him he was being driven somewhere.
“Awake now? We’re almost in town—hang in there, lad.” The voice was indeterminate—man or woman, he couldn’t tell.
Roman’s eyelids felt leaden. He didn’t bother opening them. Exhaustion pulled him under again.
A jolt brought him back. Now he was being carried. He cracked his eyes open—blinding light made him snap them shut. His skull throbbed.
“You’re back with us,” a bright, girlish voice said.
He squinted against the glare. A blurry face swam above him under flickering lights. Dizziness surged, his stomach lurched—and then, stillness. A face leaned closer, coming into focus: an old man with a neat salt-and-pepper beard studied him.
“What’s your name, son? Do you remember what happened?” The voice sounded distant.
“Roman Somers. I was—” His lips felt thick, uncooperative, but they understood.
“Aye. You took quite the beating.”
“My car—” Roman gasped. Each breath felt like a knife in his side.
“There wasn’t any car with you. Just the dog. He saved you. Rest now—better yet, sleep.” The old man’s words seeped into him like an order. Roman obeyed.
The next time he woke, the pain in his head had dulled. Muffled voices murmured nearby.
“He’s awake. Good. Can you hear me? I’m Inspector Nichols from the police. Can you speak? I need to ask you a few questions.”
Roman listened—even managed to recount stopping on the road, the beating, his car’s number plate…
“Is this your dog?”
“I don’t have a dog,” Roman said, confused.
“But the driver who called the ambulance said a dog ran straight into the road, nearly under his wheels. He stopped, and the dog led him to the ditch where you were lying. You were hidden—if not for the dog, you’d still be there. Right. Sign here.” A sheet of paper appeared in front of him. A pen was pressed into his fingers. Roman scribbled his name and let his hand drop.
“What’s wrong with me?” he whispered.
“You’re alive—that’s what matters. Two broken ribs, a nasty head wound, bruises everywhere.”
“That’s enough for today. He’s exhausted. Come back tomorrow when he’s stronger,” chimed the familiar voice.
Roman felt the truth of it—a bone-deep weariness dragged him under once more.
He woke in darkness. Shadows from tree leaves shifted on the ceiling, making the room spin. Nausea rolled through him. He closed his eyes, but his mind was clearer now. The roadside. The red car.
Morning came with sunlight through the window and birdsong. He felt better.
“Good. Think you can stand?” The doctor—peppered beard and all—smiled.
“Yeah.” His own voice surprised him.
“Easy now.” The doctor steadied his elbow, helping him rise. “Slowly. Now sit. Dizzy? No? Swing your legs down. Good lad.”
Soon the room steadied. Pale blue walls. A bedside table. The doctor in his white coat, looking faintly elvish with that pointed beard, hovered nearby. Bandages constricted Roman’s chest, but the pain was bearable.
“Next time, we’ll try walking,” the doctor said cheerfully.
Roman did walk. Strength returned step by step. He reached the window. Beyond lay a hospital park, sparse benches lining narrow paths.
“See? Under that tree—your dog. He’s been waiting,” a nurse said behind him.
“I don’t have a dog.” Roman turned.
“We thought he was yours. We’ve tried shooing him off, but he won’t budge—just growls. Sits there all day beneath your window. We leave food—he won’t touch it till we’re gone.”
The dog sat under the tree, watching passersby. Roman couldn’t stand long. He returned to bed. The next day, he stepped outside.
The dog spotted him but stayed put, waiting for Roman to approach.
“Was it you who saved me? Cheers, mate.” He ruffled the dog’s ears. A tail thumped twice. Roman shuffled to a bench and sat. The dog settled nearby.
They basked in the sun until Inspector Nichols appeared. The dog sidled away but didn’t leave.
“Afternoon. Glad to see you up. Doesn’t care for coppers, this one,” Nichols said, nodding at the dog.
They talked—questions, answers, the same as before: no leads on his stolen car.
“Going home? Need bus fare?”
“Won’t let me on with him,” Roman said, jerking his chin at the dog. “Taxi, if you can lend me the cash. The thugs cleaned me out.”
“So you’re taking him? Good lad. I checked—owner died overseas. Mum passed from grief soon after. The dog was alone. Taxi’ll cost a fortune. Hold on—I’ll arrange a lift.”
They rode in the back of a squad car, the chatty officer driving.
“Whole town’s talking about you two. Wish I had a dog like this.”
The dog sat unbothered. Roman felt like a shadow, basking in borrowed heroism.
At last, they arrived. Roman thanked the officer and led his faithful companion inside. The smell of roasting meat greeted them.
“Well? Come on,” Roman said, holding the door.
But the dog froze on the threshold. From the kitchen emerged Tanya, wearing a floral apron.
“Hi. I had a feeling you’d be back today, so I cooked.” She offered her cheek for a kiss—then saw the dog on the doormat.
“Who’s that?” Her eyes widened.
“Meet Sunny. He’s staying with me. With us,” Roman corrected.
Tanya paled, backing toward the kitchen. He’d forgotten—once, a stray had bitten her as a child. The rabies shots had been agony. She’d feared all dogs since, even the tiniest.
She tore off the apron and flung it onto a chair.
“You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?” Her voice turned shrill.
“Tanya, listen—he saved my life. I couldn’t leave him—”
“Get him out of here!” she shrieked.
Sunny moved aside, clearing her path. Tanya snatched her shoes, pressed her back to the doorframe, and sidled out, never taking her eyes off the dog. Her heels clattered down the stairs.
Roman didn’t stop her. The roasted meat was shared between him and his saviour.
