Page 49 of You'll Be Sorry

Lovey III sleeps in front of the woodstove. She’s old now. Greets me with a single thump of her tail against the floor instead of rising to standing. Cabin’s small enough it hardly makes a difference.

Most don’t approve of my place. All that remains of what used to be. Sturdiest structures on the land are now the wind-scoured tombstones, jutting out like broken teeth in the family plot at the edge of the woods. Families are born in laughter. They die in the faint echo of their forefather’s front door being latched for the final time. My mother, disappearing one day,never to return. My father, trying to hold it together until a patch of black ice took him out. Then it was just me and my grandfather and the cold comfort of used-to-bes and might’ve-beens.

The day he died, I swore to never want again. To never need, to never care. To love was to lose, to lose was to hurt.

And I made good on that threat for the longest time. Until one day…

This memory is on me.

Ring any bells for you?

I opened my front door to discover the Dixon kids creeping around my front porch, carefully stepping over the gaping holes and splintered boards.

“Are you really a witch?” the oldest one dared to ask me, jutting out his chin.

Lovey shoved her boxy head past my legs.

“A puppy! What’s his name?” the youngest boy asked.

One of his sisters shushed him. “We don’t play with strays.”

But I could already tell the littlest one didn’t care. And neither did Lovey. They were both the babies of the family; they didn’t know any better yet.

But the oldest, what was his name? Oh, yes, that’s right:

“I’m Henry,” the boy declared, his voice cracking with the promise, the curse of adolescence. “We’re the Dixons, and we’ve been sent here on a very important mission.”

I waited.

“We must kill a witch!” The tallest girl, sounding as brash and impetuous as her brother.

“To break the curse of the north woods!” The younger girl, finally speaking up.

“And save all the animals.” The smallest one again. “May I pet your dog?”

Lovey wagged her tail, glancing at me inquiringly.

I considered their request, eyeing each one in turn. Their bright eyes, flushed cheeks, robust limbs. I didn’t have to ask who they were or where they were from. You can’t hide their level of privilege.

“I see four tenderhearted babes with thick, meaty limbs. What’s to stop me from grabbing you foolish kids and throwing you into my cooking pot?”

“Oh, you don’t want to do that,” the littlest one said, crouched down and holding out his hand for Lovey. “I haven’t bathed in over a week.”

“You told Mom—” The older girl, whirling on him.

“I lied. I don’t like baths. Just gonna get dirty again.”

Lovey, now licking gently at those grimy, sticky fingertips. The boy, giggling.

“There are four of us and one of you,” the oldest boy blustered. “You can try to fight us, but we’ll win!”

I merely shrugged. They didn’t know what to make of that. Excellent.

“So I’m a witch?” I asked. “Why would you think such a thing?”

The older two children flushed. Glanced at my wild hair, disheveled clothes. Flushed some more. I let them.

Then finally, because at least the younger two were being sensible and cozying up to Lovey to scratch her silky ears: