Page 105 - Dark Matter Issue5 Part II

porch. Symbol of humanity’s good intentions—or possibly of “too little, too late”—the box

seemed built to purpose; it even had a few holes to let in the air.

The raccoon had made it to the middle of the road, where it bobbed and shuddered,

peering alternately at the pavement and at the sky. I approached it with care. Dropping

the trap, I nudged it back until it butted up against the curb. Tufts of grizzled fur poked

out the holes. An eye looked up. A quivering nose. The raccoon struggled for all it was

worth—which wasn’t very much. It was enough to move the box, though. Enough to

require that I plant a boot on it, the way a hunter plants a boot on her kill.

When Animal Services finally arrived, it arrived in the form of a young woman—almost a

girl—with black feathered hair and enough eyeliner to create the impression of a squint.

She glanced at the box, nodded and opened the back doors of her van.

“He’s really sick,” I blurted. “He hasn’t moved in a while.”

She turned to face me. In one hand she held a small cage, in the other, a stick of sorts

that ended in a wire noose. “It’s okay,” she said. “You can lift the box.”

The raccoon was still alive, but just barely. His eyes had clouded over and—I know this

can’t be right, but it’s what I remember—he seemed to have shrunk by half.

“Oh, buddy.” The girl gazed at him. “Feeling pretty rough, huh?”