Evelyn
Evelyn was studying at university and, like most students, worked odd jobs, mostly night shifts. Her mother couldn’t help her financially, and a student loan wasn’t enough to survive in a big city.
After her summer exams, she took a break and spent three weeks at her mum’s. She returned refreshed, well-rested, and laden with homegrown vegetables and jars of jam carefully packed by her mother into her bag.
Evelyn stepped off the bus at the station square. After the long journey, the bag felt twice as heavy. She dragged herself to the bus stop and slumped onto the bench with relief, setting her burden down.
She returned to the city with a lightness in her heart. Life at mum’s was nice, but after two years on her own, she’d grown used to independence. She missed the city’s buzz, her friends. Her part-time job had finally allowed her to move out of student halls and rent a tiny flat.
The flat was small, tucked away in a quiet suburban neighbourhood, but the rent was affordable. The windows overlooked an overgrown wasteland backed by thick woods. At night, not a single light pierced the darkness, but mornings flooded the place with golden sunshine. In winter, the snow-covered field glowed even in the dead of night.
A quiet whimper broke her thoughts. Evelyn peered beneath the bench and spotted a sharp brown muzzle. Big, nervous black eyes stared back, filled with misery and fear. Only then did she notice the lead tying the dog to the bench. Kneeling, she reached out, but the dachshund shrank back, trembling.
“Don’t be scared,” she murmured, gently tugging the lead.
Reluctantly, the dog crawled out, ready to dart back under at any moment. But Evelyn held firm.
The dog panted rapidly, tongue lolling. August had been unusually hot. No wonder the poor thing had sought shade beneath the bench.
Realising it was thirsty, Evelyn spotted a kiosk nearby selling drinks and snacks. “Stay here,” she whispered, heading over.
“Just a small bottle of water, please,” she asked the indifferent shopkeeper. “You don’t happen to have an empty tin can, do you?”
The woman smirked. “How about a paper cup?”
“No, it’s for a dog—it won’t drink from a cup. See that dachshund tied to the bench? Any idea how long it’s been there?”
The woman squinted, sighed. “People can be cruel. I opened up at eight—saw a bloke in a flash car bring it over, tie it up, and drive off. Never came back. Here, take this. Needs a rinse, though.” She handed over an empty sardine tin.
Thanking her, Evelyn paid—twice the usual price—and hurried back. She rinsed the tin, filled it, and set it down. The dachshund, now back under the bench, hesitated before creeping forward, sniffing, then lapping noisily.
“What am I to do with you?” Evelyn muttered. “Stray dogs might tear you apart out here. Or worse.” She shuddered. “You’re coming with me. No other choice.”
She scribbled her number on a scrap of paper, left it at the kiosk in case the owner turned up, then unhooked the lead and dragged the reluctant dog onto the bus. She paid for two, but neither the driver nor passengers objected—the dog stayed quiet on her lap.
At home, it cowered in the hallway corner, sniffing warily at the unfamiliar scents. Evelyn fashioned a bed from an old blanket. The dachshund curled up instantly, watching her with wide, wary eyes.
“What’s your name?” She listed off dog names. “No? What about Felix?”
The dog barked.
“Felix it is.” Another bark. “You understand me? Why would anyone leave you?”
That night, she listened to claws clicking on laminate. Felix, exploring, scurried back to the hall at her slightest movement. But soon, he grew bold, greeting her with impatient whines when she returned.
With no space in the car-packed yard, she walked him on the wasteland. Once away from roads, she’d let him off the lead, terrified he’d bolt—but he always came when called. His stubby legs were surprisingly quick in the long grass.
September arrived, dry and warm, and with it, lectures. Evelyn resumed night shifts, leaving Felix alone for hours. He’d greet her ecstatically, and she couldn’t imagine life without him.
One Sunday, as they wandered the wasteland, Felix bolted toward the woods. Evelyn chased, calling, but the tangled grass slowed her.
“Felix! Home!”
Silence.
Then—a yelp, abruptly cut off. Heart pounding, she crashed through the trees. A clearing. Three lads crouched, poking at something. Felix lay pinned to the ground by a sharpened branch.
One yanked it free. Felix jerked, blood gushing. The tallest lad stepped toward Evelyn, branch in hand, tip glistening red. His empty, dead eyes locked onto hers.
She turned and ran, grass snagging her legs. Behind her—footsteps, rustling. Closer. “Just don’t fall—!”
A crushing blow between her shoulders. She stumbled, knees hitting pavement. Braced for another strike—but nothing. They’d vanished.
A silver car screeched to a halt. A man helped her up. Every breath stung.
“Who hurt you?”
“Three—maybe four lads. They—they stabbed Felix—”
“Your husband?”
“My dog. Please—we have to get him—he’s bleeding out!”
The man relaxed slightly. “Stay here.” He flagged down another driver, and the two men dashed into the trees.
Eternity later, they returned. One cradled a blood-soaked bundle.
“He’s alive. We’re taking him to the vet.”
Felix died on the way.
Evelyn couldn’t bring herself to move his bed, his bowl. Nights, she’d wake to phantom clicking claws. Returning home, she’d pause, half-expecting his joyful whines—but silence swallowed her.
Autumn rains set in. One evening, stepping from the bus, she shivered, remembering she’d no bread. Reluctantly, she ducked into a shop—and collided with a lad at the exit. Cold grey eyes met hers. Recognition flared.
She opened her mouth—but he spun, bolting. A screech of brakes. Rounding the corner, she found him sprawled on the tarmac. The driver stammered, “He ran right into me!”
Police arrived. One officer approached—the same man who’d carried Felix. “Again?” he sighed.
She pointed. “It’s him—the one who hurt Felix!”
Two weeks later, a buzzer jolted her awake. A man stood at her door, holding a square bag.
“Sorry to wake you,” he said. “No one to watch her today.”
Evelyn took it—something stirred inside. Unzipping it, a sharp brown muzzle emerged. Two big black eyes blinked up.
“I thought a boy might remind you of Felix. So I got a girl. Fiona.”
“Fiona.” Evelyn lifted the trembling dachshund, cradling her. A lick on her chin. She laughed, quiet and bright.
“You didn’t clear it away.” He nodded at Felix’s bed.
“Couldn’t,” she admitted, clutching Fiona. “I never got your name.”
“James.”
Fiona was nothing like Felix—stubborn, mischievous, chewing shoes, refusing to sleep anywhere but Evelyn’s bed. Walks were always with the lead now. Weekends, James drove them to distant parks where Fiona raced through autumn leaves, ears flapping, infecting them all with joy. They’d chase each other, laughter echoing under the trees.
