Memory of a hand, swollen about the fingers. A hand that offered food, that patted. 

The familiar smell of a body that meant home. Belonging. Comfort.

The way they both changed. He knows, and he doesn’t know because Drury thinks about things in his own way. Part of him is still a mud rolling puppy. All of him is still the dog he used to be. Sometimes he forgets about his bones. He recalls bodies as though they were still here, as though nothing has changed.

But also the wind whistles between his ribs sometimes and he knows this is not how it used to be. 

A machine that does not smell of person. A voice that does not belong in a machine. Whispery and distant, caught in wax – not that Drury understands the process. A voice that would make his heart hurt, if he still had one of those. He doesn’t know where it went.

When I was a little child

I went into the sea

Down I went

And down I went

One, two three

And all the hungry fishes

Came to look at me

And ate me up

And ate me up

One, two, three.

Now I’m in the water

Calling, follow me

Tender little girls and boys

One, two, three.

It’s just a nursery rhyme. Something said to amuse babies as they fall asleep. There’s nothing substantial here. Just the remains of a dog, listening with total adoration to the uneasy whispering of his late master’s voice.