Good Dog

The boy didn’t speak for the first hundred miles.

Not when the truck broke down in the valley.

Not when the crows circled low and the air smelled of burnt rubber and old fire.

Not even when the shadows moved behind the trees.

But the dog walked beside him.

A big shepherd mix, black as night except for the silver streak above his right eye. His name was Bristle, though only the boy knew it. And now, with the world in pieces and the sky hanging in ashes, Bristle was all the boy had.

They walked the old road, past rusted signs and long-dead gas stations. Sometimes they found a can of beans. Sometimes a broken doll. Once, a coat that still held warmth when the boy wrapped it around his thin frame.

Bristle always walked a few steps ahead. Not out of pride, but duty.

He sniffed the wind, growled when it turned wrong, and barked once—only once—when a figure in the trees crept too close.

The boy had no weapon. Just a sling in his pocket and a flat rock he held like a secret. But Bristle—Bristle was a weapon in his own way. A protector, silent and steady, who could bare teeth like ivory blades and leap faster than a lie.

They came to a bridge on the third night. The river below was dark and swollen. The boy paused. The boards looked weak. He could see the gap where two had fallen away, just wide enough for a small foot to slip through.

He looked at Bristle.

The dog stepped forward, tested one board, then another. The wood creaked but held. When Bristle turned back and wagged his tail, the boy followed, slow and careful.

Halfway across, the wind rose. It howled between the gaps like something mourning. A plank behind them cracked and dropped into the river. The boy froze.

But Bristle barked, short and sharp. It wasn’t panic. It was command.

Move.

The boy moved.

They reached the other side just as the bridge gave another groan. The boy didn’t look back. Bristle nuzzled his hand. The boy said nothing, just scratched behind his ears and whispered a breath that wasn’t quite words.

The next town was bones.

Hollow houses. A toppled church. Graffiti that read “WE TRIED” in red.

They found shelter in a shed behind a grocery store. Bristle circled the space twice before curling up near the door. The boy curled beside him. For the first time in days, he slept without waking.

Morning brought voices.

Rough ones. Men.

The boy sat up fast. Bristle was already standing, ears stiff, eyes narrowed through the crack in the door.

Three of them. Big. Laughing without smiles.

The boy’s heart beat in his throat.

Bristle didn’t bark. He just looked at the boy, then toward the window.

Go.

The boy hesitated.

Bristle growled low, then turned and rushed the door. It flung open with a bang. The men shouted. The boy dove through the window and ran.

He heard the scuffle behind him—the yells, the snarls, the sound of something hitting the ground hard.

He didn’t stop.

Not until he reached the woods.

Not until he couldn’t hear the men anymore.

Not until the silence returned.

And then—then the waiting.

Minutes. Maybe hours.

Then a sound in the brush.

The boy crouched low, clutching his sling. His fingers trembled. His breath caught.

A rustle. A shadow.

Then—

Bristle.

Limping. Bleeding from his side. But walking.

Alive.

The boy ran to him, wrapped his arms around his thick neck and wept. For the first time since the fires, since the day the world fell apart, the boy let the tears come. Bristle licked his cheek, then rested his head in the boy’s lap.

They built a small fire that night.

The boy tore strips from his shirt and cleaned Bristle’s wound with water from the stream. He talked as he worked—not much, but enough.

“My name’s Eli,” he whispered.

Bristle wagged his tail once, slow and tired.

“I think we’re close. My uncle’s farm—it should be past the ridge.”

The dog lifted his head at the word farm.

“Yeah,” Eli said, smiling through the dirt. “With chickens. Maybe cows. You’ll like it there.”

The next morning, they walked again. Slower, careful.

The ridge was steep, but Bristle never stopped. Eli helped when he could, pulling him gently with whispers and soft hands.

At the top, they saw it.

A cabin. Smoke rising from the chimney. A windmill turning lazy in the morning light.

Eli didn’t cry this time.

He just looked at Bristle and said, “Good dog.”

Bristle thumped his tail once, then leaned into the boy’s side.

Together, they walked down the hill—into safety, into warmth, into whatever came next.