Sugarbean

In her twelve years on earth, Sugarbean has met many people. Her mom and siblings at the farm would lose their minds every time they heard a stranger’s car, but Sugarbean was three months old when she went to live on campus with Leona. In a bustling university town like Briarwood, every time a little dog thinks she has experienced every smell possible, along comes a whiff that blows her whole mind.

Life has taught Sugarbean that everything is safe when you approach it with a big smile-and-wag. People are friends, even the strange-smelling ones. Strangers in the streets want to play with Sugarbean all the time. If a stranger shrinks from her, Sugarbean breathes down her racing pulse and keeps walking. That’s good dog. Who’s a good girl? Sugarbean. Her.

Back when Leona acquired a new boyfriend, her furious two-year-old ball of wool wanted nothing but to bite his ankle. Ronny could’ve never made his way into Leona’s life without charming Sugarbean first. Now, she can’t recall a time before Ronny. If anything spooks her real bad, Ronny’s soothing voice croons in her ear, “Calm down, mami,” as he pats her into bed. “Nothing bad will happen.” And it doesn’t. Nothing bad has ever happened to Sugarbean.

Sugarbean runs and runs along I-90 as cars and trucks whoosh past. Strange-smelling people are roaming under the trees, but strange-smelling people are just friends she hasn’t met, Ronny always says. Where is Ronny?

Like every evening, the two of them went for their run. The sights, sounds, memories of the world are slowly dissolving from Sugarbean, but that never matters because every day is exactly the same. On their way home Ronny occasionally stops at a store and she sits outside, but he always returns. Now she’s all alone—no Ronny, no stores, no well-trodden running trail, no bowl of fresh food set down by Leona as soon as they’re back.

Two strange-smelling people emerge from the trees. Sugarbean sniffs: this one smells like a garden of roses, the other like enormous sun-blanched water, like the time Ronny and Leona took her to the beach. Immediately, she loves them. As the world grows blurrier Sugarbean finds herself knowing people by their unique scents: the turpentine-and-linseed-oil whiff that follows Leona even when she hasn’t painted in weeks; Ronny’s pinewood soap, and underneath, the faint smolder of weed smoke. Most people smell like nothing much. These two she can barely discern in the dark smell like entire worlds.

“Hey, where’d this crusty little dog come from?” Roses hollers.

“Let’s get outta here before its owners show up,” replies Seawater.

Roses objects. “There’s nobody except us for miles.” A tiny pink rosebud of hope plops open. “Hey, think I can keep the dog?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Seawater splashes the little flower, bristling salt. “You ever see one of these little yappers run around alone? Something must’ve happened to its owners . . . not too far from here.”

“Or someone.”

“Shit!” Sea storm brews beneath the darkened horizon, growling. “Can a day go by without one of you pulling something we all end up paying for?”

“Come on, I never—”

“Stop whining for a second, will you?” Tall, thunderous waves crash into rugged cliffs. “When this dog gets to Briarwood and leads the police back here, they’re not going to ask which of you did . . . whatever the fuck you did this time.”

“Nobody did anything like that.” Honeybees weave through the roses, fat and languorous in the cloying air. “I told you—there’s no one else in the forests tonight. No sign of any accident. Maybe the poor dog’s owners just dumped it by the highway and left. Some people can be real jerks.”

Sugarbean yelps a tiny protest. Not Ronny. Never Ronny. Ronny’s sweet face is a breeze in the pinewoods, whispering shhh shhh shhh, mija, everything’s going to be fine.

“Whatever.” The tide ebbs, littering shards and bones on the shore. “Let’s hope a coyote or something eats it tonight.”

“You’re a fucking monster,” hisses Roses, stems splintering into a zillion little prickles. Seawater bursts out laughing.

“Let’s take the dog with us.” The rose garden has grown for centuries—nothing but persistent. “That solves both our problems. I’ll take care of it. I always dreamed of having a little dog exactly like this.”

“So get one that isn’t half-dead,” retorts Seawater.

“Why do you care?”

In an instant the sea grows quiet, windless like moments before the storm. The fathomless deep holds its breath. Then—

“Whatever. As long as I don’t have to clean up after.”

“When have you ever had to clean up after me?”

Roses, rambling, feral, long glistening thorns bared like fangs beneath blood-red petals. Their fragrance is something ancient—churned earth and incense and other things Sugarbean hasn’t lived long enough to know.

The storm surge billows to a crest before collapsing onto itself, far from the coast. A snarl and then Seawater disappears into the forest.

The one of the roses turns to Sugarbean. Vines and flowers crawl and envelop her in layers of heady perfume until Sugarbean is in the heart of the garden herself. She smiles and wags when Roses asks, “Hey, Crusty, wanna come home with me?”

That’s the best idea Sugarbean has ever heard. Roses doesn’t even know her real name but nothing Ronny or Leona told her in all her life has ever felt so meaningful—each word blooming bright inside her head, surpassing the rheumy eyes that no longer hold so much light. There’s only one adventure left, and it’s this.

“Yep! Exciting!” Sugarbean responds.