From First to Forgotten

By David E Griséz

From First to Forgotten is the story of Gunnery Sergeant Jackson Frost, who awakens from a coma to learn that his wife and daughter are missing. In search of his family, Jackson uncovers clues that lead him to a homeless encampment and a plot connected to missing destitute street people. His search and fight for the underdog embroils him in a conspiracy that has devastating world repercussions.

Jackson's missing daughter, Sydney, finds herself with amnesia in a meadow and chooses to venture into the nearby forest. She meets the unassuming but charming bear Joe, who understands that Sydney needs his help. Along with Joe and the small ape named 8, she decides to venture to the Northern Slope of this strange new world, seeking the one individual who might help her, Solomon, the Dragon King.

From First to Forgotten is the story of a driven veteran of a foreign war fighting his underlying need to always do the right thing, while his young daughter faces overwhelming odds against the one creature whose goal is to end her existence and all that surround him. From First to Forgotten is a tale of wonder, action, adventure, forgiveness, and love that will keep you captivated from beginning to end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Sep 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887637211

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

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13

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About the Author

cover.jpg

From First to Forgotten

David E Griséz

Copyright © 2023 David E Griséz

All rights reserved

First Edition

NEWMAN SPRINGS PUBLISHING

320 Broad Street

Red Bank, NJ 07701

First originally published by Newman Springs Publishing 2023

ISBN 979-8-88763-720-4 (Paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88763-721-1 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

To Tere, whose love inspires me.

Special thanks to Jason Whitfield for his immeasurable help and guidance.

Prologue

1

The smell of death arrived with the wind of the new war. Beneath blue cloudless skies, a once prosperous plantation exuded the final unremarkable moments of righteous southern glory as the sun raced across the summer sky. Unbeknownst to the innocent and the wicked, the events that day pried open a corridor.

They hunkered side by side in the mud and the dirt, where they had been hiding for what seemed an eternity. In the dampness where they had only each other, their hopes remained alive, as they waited for the opportunity to run. From a broken slat, they could see out of the barn, across the plantation and into the spacious fields. Not far from the symmetrical rows of cotton where leafy trees and scabrous brush ran for miles was freedom. It was so close, yet hateful greed and the master's godless rights forced them to remain in hiding. They had to be patient. Cazembe whispered a prayer of hope into her ear. He believed, and because he did, she did also. If they got past the forest, they might still have a chance.

The group of men led by plantation owner Harold Satterfield had been out since late morning searching for them. Staying close was Cazembe's idea. Would the men discover their hiding place almost under their very noses? They both knew the punishment would be severe for their crime, but if they managed to escape to where the others already were, they stood a chance. Worry creased Cazembe's brow. Could they hide until the day darkened into night? If they were able to do that, freedom could be a more than just a dream; it could be reality.

He pressed his sister's head down upon hearing the men talk from outside the door. The men had dogs, but determination and experience had proven that they would search first within the fields and then the surrounding miles of forest. On the plantation, the dogs wouldn't pick up any scent other than what would be expected, since they were hiding close to where other slaves were kept in the small windowless quarters close by. Cazembe blew a nervous breath into the ground where they lay watching, and the small swirl of dust flew away from his dry lips. A while longer and it would be dark. Would they stop looking when the sun left the sky? It had happened before when he had helped others getaway over the course of the last month, but this escape was different.

Cazembe had observed Satterfield's reaction to the first missing slaves, and he watched stoically, as Satterfield screamed obscenities in frustrated rage at those who were left. Surprisingly, Satterfield never suspected who was behind the disappearances. Once, Cazembe had risked listening in to the master's rantings as he crouched in hiding beneath the big window of the main house. As Satterfield's voice rose indignantly, Cazembe barely suppressed the smile that creased his handsome face. How dare anyone steal from me? Satterfield had thrown the month's old newspaper that he had been reading across the room. Even in his beloved south, Satterfield had read in the northern press about those who spoke against his rights and where he placed the blame for this war that now separated the perception of a once united people. What had always been lawful for countless of his generations upon the backs of those enslaved was now questioned, and he swore he would protect what was his in any manner he saw fit. Not a moment of conscience ever entered Satterfield's blameless thoughts. He was, after all, the unquestionable ruler of those he owned. Were these slaves any different than the animals required to perform the labor he expected? They were his to do with as he pleased, not unlike the dogs he now used to retrieve those who dared to run from what he had so generously given them. Should he care that these creatures had once had their own land and homes? He scoffed at the thought. Most were pitiful wretches, particularly this last group who looked up to the new one they called Cazembe. When he was found, he would break him and any other who believed his seditious mouthing. These coloreds would know who their master was, and he would teach them. From the moment they awoke in the morning until they lay their heads down at night, they would serve no other purpose but Harold Satterfield's wishes and be grateful for it. In the meanwhile, they would be given what they had earned, these dark-skinned soulless cattle. All of them would learn, or they would die. Cazembe saw all of this. He had no delusions of what would come next. It had been time to act or not at all. He sighed and closed his eyes opening the door to the past one last time.

The day he first arrived at Harold Satterfield's plantation was burned into his memory. Cazembe knew then, he would live free or die, although at the beginning, he endured the backbreaking field labor without complaint. He contemplated the unfamiliar white faces riding on horseback among his fellows, whips in hand, ready to lash out, especially if a slave was perceived to be working too slow. Cazembe seethed with growing hate, while his people labored and died under the cruel hand guiding the whip in the misery of the unforgiving daytime sun. He knew these white men just followed Satterfield's order, but they all inflicted their misery the same. He considered them from under the ragged sweat-stained cloth wrapped around his head and swore that somehow, he would gain freedom, not only for himself, but for everyone that he could steal away from the cruelty of this unfamiliar land and this master that he was now being forced to serve.

I'm afraid, 'Zembe, whispered the girl next to him, and her words brought him back to the present. He looked over at her with a stern stare, and a tear formed in the corner of one of her eyes. He forced a smile.

I'm afraid too, little sister, he murmured back. He lifted a single finger to his mouth in the universal gesture of silence. The girl squirmed her body farther back under the broken fencing that had been thrown in the corner of the barn, which served as their current hiding place. We just have to wait until they're gone. Nightfall is soon. There are people waiting to help us on the other side of the trees. Cazembe reached out, wiping away the tear that had begun to furrow through the dirt that covered the girl's cheek, leaving a clean spot on her fair, brown skin. Cazembe frowned. She was so young, really nothing more than a child, even though he was only older by a few years. His thoughts were disrupted by the loud command from outside. The shouted order made his blood run cold.

You there! Search the barn, came the instruction in Satterfield's familiar, commanding voice. Cazembe's eyes grew wide as the double doors rattled open.

Stay, here. I'll come back for you, whispered Cazembe into the girl's ear. He leaned over and gave her a quick kiss on the forehead while he pushed his square leather shoes from his feet. She almost cried out in surprise, but instead, she tried to scrunch herself even farther back into the small space under the pile of broken lumber.

Cazembe had never moved faster. As three of Satterfield's foremen entered the barn, he burst past them at a fast sprint, hoping that they would only chase him and not bother to look for the small girl hiding in the shadows beneath the wood.

His gambit worked. Immediately upon running past the men, he heard shouts meant to stop him. He paid them no mind. One man raised a rifle to his shoulder.

Don't shoot! shouted Satterfield. Capture him alive! I want him brought back to me…alive! Satterfield waved his arms, and two men began to trail after Cazembe, while the other three dashed to where the horses were tied to fence posts close to the fields.

Cazembe dug his bare toes into the dirt, easily outdistancing the men who followed on foot. These men were not used to running, and soon Cazembe could hear their panting farther and farther back from their fading stamina after only the first quarter mile. He heard the distant sounds of hoofs and knew that he had to reach the trees if he was to have any chance of survival. In the distance came the shouts of his would-be captors, but once he was hidden in the forest, he knew he could escape them. Even with the dogs on his trail, he still had a chance.

2

Darkness fell on the still cloudless night. The girl no longer heard the shouting of men or the barking of dogs so close to where she hid. She knew that Cazembe had told her to stay still and wait, but her body ached from crouching in her hiding place. She had grown thirsty from lack of water, and the numbing fear of the unknown made it worse. At first, she wriggled a few feet forward and saw that the barn door was open. Carefully she pulled herself out from under the wood. Her hand reached to move the last discarded post, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw something moving slowly and deliberately. She put her hand to her mouth to freeze the scream that rose to her lips.

Before her crawled the largest spider that she had ever remembered seeing. She knew the creature was harmless having watched Cazembe and some of the other men pick them up and inspect these eight-legged wonders, yet she had remained frightened of them ever since. The spider sensed her closeness and reared up on four bristling black and brown back legs.

I thought as much, came a voice from outside. The girl glanced up from where she lay on the ground. The recognizable dark silhouette of Harold Satterfield holding the fearsome whip filled the doorway. Streaming moonlight illuminated the dirt floor where she cowered, revealing her to him. A large snarling dog crouched by his side. He took a step toward her as she lay frozen in fear, and he deliberately began to unravel the long leather whip. She had never felt the bite of the lash, but she had seen the whip tearing into the backs of other slaves, separating strips of flesh from muscles and tendons. He laughed. It was a cruel grating sound, and she cringed, awaiting the blow that was sure to come. She squeezed her eyes closed. Sucking in her breath, she waited, but the expected pain never came.

From behind Satterfield, Cazembe had snatched the recoiling whip as it arced lazily through the air seeking its latest victim. Surprised, Satterfield cried out as Cazembe pulled the whip from his hand. The dumbfounded man stumbled backward, arms flailing, and fell to the ground throwing clouds of dirt and dust into the air. Hurriedly he pushed himself away crab walking backward while still on the ground, anxious to distance himself from the slave who dared to wave the whip in front of him.

Hurry! Cazembe yelled using the language of their faraway home, and for a second, the girl felt a glimmer of hope. With Satterfield no longer holding the leash, the menacing dog leaped at Cazembe, who dropped the whip in a futile attempt to restrain the beast's slavering mouth away from his throat. The maddened animal's muzzle shifted, and flashing sharp teeth sunk into Cazembe's arm. Bright red blood spurted from the wound.

The girl turned away, unable to watch. She glanced to the side and saw the spider, moving away quickly in a frenzied multiple legged motion, while she kicked away the last bit of rotting lumber.

Satterfield heard a rasping flutter from the wood pile and turned his head. Dozens of awakened scuttling insects burst forth from beneath the discarded fencing and darted toward him, seeking new cover. Satterfield gasped in instinctual revulsion. Several huge cockroaches scurried away, anxious to escape the frantic kicking of his feet. They disappeared into the night, and Satterfield flung his arm out to hurry the creatures away.

Farther up the road, a group of men heard the noise and ran to see what the disturbance was. They entered the barn slowly, guns in hand. They looked around and then at each other. There was nothing there other than the whip lying in the doorway and Satterfield's frightened dog cowering in the corner next to a pile of scattered wood. The dog's whimpering cut across the moonlit night for any that might be listening.

1

1

Twilight enveloped its reddish-purple hue over the city. Jackson untied the cords that secured the sleeping mat from his backpack. With a quick flip of his wrists, the mat sprung from his hands to land neatly upon the cement of the alleyway. It was a grim place to rest, but it would do. He had to follow up on this latest tip. It was too important to pass up.

Every new lead regarding Sharon and Syd was more than what he had before, and he would follow them all. Although Jackson would have preferred resting in any of the cheap hotels that were randomly scattered throughout the downtown Cleveland area, he couldn't take the chance of missing any opportunity to discover the whereabouts of his wife and daughter.

The homeless often knew things before everyone else regarding their own. Jackson had run into plenty of dead ends, but he couldn't afford to ignore a single lead. His oath to never quit and the optimism he fed himself helped him through the long days and the even more difficult nights. This time, he thought, he might get lucky. Sooner or later, he would encounter the right person or people that could help him. He couldn't do that unless he was on the street.

He picked up the mat and shook it a second time, maneuvering it parallel to the brick wall of his chosen spot. There were trash bins and the unpleasant aroma of garbage, but he had checked both ends of the alley carefully to ensure that he was alone. This location was close to the urban homeless encampment only a half dozen blocks away and was suitable for a much-needed night's rest. Experience had taught him to wait and investigate before waltzing into the midst of an already suspicious group of people. He had quickly discovered that most street folks didn't take kindly to strangers probing around, asking questions. He wouldn't make that mistake again.

How everything he had ever known before had changed. Even his recent past seemed to him as if it had been another life; the one where he had fought with valor in the conflicts of the middle eastern world that lay in deserts of hate and distrust, and now. Halfway across the world from where he had once served, he had learned harsh lessons, and the first one was trust had to be established. After that, a couple of questions here and there wouldn't trigger too many red flags. He had often wished he hadn't forgotten the benefit of that tidbit of wisdom before. Stupidity is supposed to be painful. He was done being stupid.

Sitting on the mat, he stretched his back and exhaled, momentarily setting his mind free from his daily doubts and emotions. For a few brief moments he needed to let go and relax. In the darkness of the alley, he could keep an eye open for trouble and still manage to rest and reset his weary body and mind. In Iraq and later Afghanistan, he had learned how to maintain awareness and keep his body poised for possible danger even while resting. He now found himself relying on those ingrained habits, and as soon as he felt his eyes close, his senses became keen to movement, although his body did not betray his concern. It was the sound of three voices approaching the alley from the street outside his resting place that gave him cause for alarm and suspicion. He had learned long ago to rely upon his instincts, and that had saved his life on more than one occasion.

The three men sauntered casually down the sidewalk. They talked in overloud voices, unaware that every word spoken was heard from the man sitting only yards away. From his vantage point, Jackson could determine that alcohol was affecting their speech, and he knew that being a little sauced might make the situation worse. He slowly eased his body closer to the mat, hoping that the trio would pay him no mind. After all, who was he but another one of the many lost in America, homeless, sleeping on the street?

So how far down the road do the bums stay? the first voice asked. The accent was Midwestern, no surprise in Cleveland, Ohio.

At least another five or six blocks, numb nuts, came the reply. Voice 2 had a condescending tone with a strong Michigan accent. Jackson sensed this man was the alpha of this group of strangers.

Yeah, let's just get in and get out, came voice 3. This voice was slow and uncertain. Jackson heard the distinctive clink of a bottle against brick, giving away a thumping, grinding sound as the glass scraped against the building.

Hey, be careful with that stuff, said voice 2. You break that bottle, and I'll break your head. I don't feel like going and getting another one just because you're a careless moron!

Aw, lighten up will ya? came the reply. I got this. Although the bottle bumped the bricks again.

Yeah, you got this, my ass! voice 2 sounded more than a trifle irritated. You're the one that almost botched the job the last time! Keep your boy in line, Clyde! Jackson sensed exasperation. Their steps were almost upon him. In a moment they would pass him by, or so he hoped. He felt a familiar sensation rise in his chest, and he quickly pushed it down.

Hey, don't blame Willy for… voice 1's sentence died out, and the footsteps stopped.

Bad luck, thought Jackson. He hoped that the pause didn't mean that they had discovered where he sat huddled in the dark.

Now what have we here? voice 2 asked, the one Jackson pegged to be the leader of this group of three. Boyo here could save us a trip, and a bottle of hooch too.

Jackson's hopes of being undiscovered vanished. Maybe they would just move on, but pessimism told him that he was not going to be that lucky. He eased his backpack away from his body, the movement nearly imperceptible. He kept his eyes closed to mere slits. He didn't need to see the men to know that all three nut bags were walking directly toward him.

Hey, buddy, what ya doing? voice 2 was definitely a Michigander. Jackson chided himself that he could be thinking of such things while his senses screamed danger.

Hey, bud, I'm talking to you! the man snarled, and he reached out a foot, giving Jackson a light kick to his thigh with a worn snakeskin cowboy boot. Jackson sat rigidly in place, still sizing them up through veiled eyes. His muscles flexed then stiffened as he braced his legs against his abdomen and pressed his back against the brick wall. He relaxed his arms on his knees, slouching his head between them. All three appeared hardened by life, mid- to early thirties, denims and tees, with tats running down their arms in kaleidoscopes of scrawled colorless ink. Two came close, but snake-booted Michigander stood back from the others, assessing the situation cautiously.

Nothing going on, man… Jackson slurred his words enough sounding like a drowsy drunk, a role that he had performed successfully before. Leave me alone…trying to sleep. He waved his arms as if he were five, and his parents had just roused him awake before the end of his midday nap.

Hey, pal, we don't want to ruin your beauty rest, snake boot promised from behind his two henchmen. Jackson's Marine training boiled to the surface. Before, these men had civilian voices. All that changed now that they had become possible enemy targets. With a flick of a mental switch, voice 1 and 3 became Tango 1 and 3.

We just thought you might like a little something to help you get there. Snake boot motioned Tango 3 to show Jackson the bottle that had been clinking against the bricks a moment ago. He took the prompt and held the bottle out. The men were close enough that Jackson could smell the liquor emanating from the bottle and the breath of Tango 3. When 3 bent over, it brought him less than a foot from Jackson's position. Dammit, thought Jackson. It didn't look like any of this was going to go away, but he'd give it one more try.

I don't want it! he whined, trying the childish arm wave again. Go away! Leave me alone! Jackson did his best attempt at a petulance posture, hoping that his continued protests would urge them on their way. Instead, they pressed closer.

Look, pal, why don't you just come with us. Snake boot's tone moved quickly from friendly to commanding. Jackson knew that an avoidance of confrontation was now no more than wishful thinking.

The first kick Jackson landed was square on the shin of Tango 3. It was a direct hit, and the man screamed sharply, falling back while instinctively grasping his leg in pain. The bottle flew from his grip, shattering on the concrete in an explosion of glass and alcohol. Jackson was up in an instant, landing two quick blows in succession to the face and throat of Tango 1. Gasping, the man staggered back, holding up one arm defensively while grasping his neck with the other.

Snake boot leaped back, never taking his eyes from Jackson. Cautiously, he moved to Jackson's right, giving Jackson no opportunity to dispatch him up close. With a practiced air, the man reached into his waistband and pulled out a gun. Jackson recognized it as a Glock 9mm: easy to conceal, dependable, and deadly.

This could have gone better, pal, snake boot intoned. We were just trying to help you out is all. But the pointing of the gun contradicted his words. Jackson wondered if he had enough time to dodge before the gun was fired. The weapon was aimed chest high, but a sound behind him made him hesitate.

The shadowy form of a dog leaped past Jackson, grabbing snake boot's arm with white crushing fangs. The canine shook and tore relentlessly at the wrist of the hand that held the weapon. Snake boot screamed, and the gun fell to the cement, spinning toward Jackson in a clatter. Swiftly, Jackson scooped it up and expertly racked the slide, watching for the glint that revealed the round in the chamber. Tango 1 and 3 were still incapacitated but showed signs of improving. The sight of the dog tearing at the wrist of snake boot hurried their recovery, and both ran from the alleyway into the street.

The dog gave one more tug on the injured man's wrist, eliciting an additional howl from snake boot before releasing his fanged grip. A frightening snarl rumbled from the dog's throat, and the big canine crouched ready to begin round 2. The move proved unnecessary.

Ow! Ow! was the best snake boot could manage. He clutched his bleeding wrist and looked up shocked to see Jackson aiming the gun at him. Eyes wide, he ran from the alleyway, blood streaming from his wrist across his hand. He looked back as he rounded the corner, disappearing into the night. The sound of retreating footsteps with a vile expletive echoing in the distance was all that remained. Jackson turned to face his benefactor.

The dog was odd-looking, not in a ragged street mutt way, just peculiar. Jackson, who hadn't had a dog since he was a kid, couldn't figure out the breed, only that it was big and clearly male. The dog was lean, not thin, and apparently well fed. His coat was glossy ebony with midnight-black piercing eyes. Those eyes watched Jackson, never taking them off the gun gripped in the man's hand. Jackson noticed the dog's stare, and he quickly jammed the pistol into the back waistband of his pants. The dog looked away, seemingly reassured. Jackson bent down on one knee, bravely putting his face trustingly close to the canine. The dog didn't move, then again, neither did he make any attempt to lick or bite. After a moment, the dog laid down, his gaze focused on Jackson.

Well, buddy, I figure I owe you for bailing me out of trouble. The dog's eyes and ears moved slightly toward the sound of Jackson's voice. Where did you come from, anyway? I looked down this alley, I don't know how I could have missed you. The dog opened his mouth and yawned, the long pink tongue dangling past his bottom teeth, and Jackson chuckled at the animal's sudden lack of interest. He reached out an open hand to pet his new friend, but the dog shifted his head so that Jackson's hand barely brushed his fur.

Okay, big boy, I'm not going to touch you, but I will say thank you for jumping in when you did. Your timing couldn't have been better. Jackson stared, knowing the dog had him on ignore, and he let out a sigh of relief. What the hell was all that about with Snake Boots and the two nut bags anyway? Rolling the homeless might be sport for bored college kids or jackasses in general, but these three clowns looked more like hardened criminals, the kind that had done real time. And where had the dog come from? He was positive the alley had been empty.

Okay, buddy. Jackson picked up his mat and the small backpack. I'm going to move a little way further down the alley just in case Huey, Dewey, and Louie decide to come back. You can come with me if you want…or do whatever you feel like doing. Jackson retrieved his gear and began to walk farther down the alleyway. Thirty feet past the previous spot, he discovered a nook close to a padlocked doorway. It looked as good as any. The dog watched at first, then stood and stretched, kicking his legs out behind him slowly and deliberately. Casually he ambled toward Jackson, lying down a yard from where Jackson was arranging his mat.

Decided to keep me company, huh? Well, that's fine with me. I'm always up for a little bit of companionship, especially from someone who just saved my life. The dog glanced at Jackson and yawned again.

I don't see a collar on you, so I don't know your name. The dog laid his head between his front paws.

Well…you did come bouncing out of the shadows, said Jackson, resuming his one-way conversation while the dog continued his silence. How about Shadow Bounce? he asked. Comically, the dog lay a paw on his snout as if in protest, emitting a slight but clear doggish whine. It was the first sound other than the previous growl Jackson had heard when the dog bit down on the man's wrist. The complaint caught Jackson by surprise, and he laughed for the first time in months. So now you're a critic? Okay, how does Shadow sound to you? The dog stared at him for a moment then turned his head and closed his eyes.

Yup, that's as good a name as any. Jackson pushed his back against the doorway and once again closed his eyes. He felt better with Shadow sitting a few feet away, and within minutes, exhaustion claimed him.

The dog continued to watch out into the night, resting but ever alert. After a while, he could hear Jackson's rhythmic breathing and knew the man was asleep.

Shadow Bounce, thought the dog. That's a stupid name. With his head on his paws, he allowed himself a few moments of rest as well.

2

For the first moments, Sydney felt as if she were floating. The air pushed lightly against her back, gently blowing her clothing away from her skin. Slowly she opened her eyes, but the feeling of suspension continued. Looking up, she could only see blue sky and a few thin wisps of clouds overhead.

Was she floating, or was she falling? The thought gave her a frightening chill. Instinctively, her body reacted, and she tried to move but was unable. Then the feeling stopped.

Something was underneath her. She gingerly reached her hand down and felt the familiarity of cool grass touch her fingers. She flexed her grip upon the turf and grabbed, tearing the slippery blades from their rooted grasp on the soil below. Most blades pulled from the ground evenly, and some slid from her grip. What remained in her hand, she held in front of her face.

Where am I? she asked aloud. With the words out of her mouth, she realized that she really didn't know. A creeping terror constricted her chest, and she began to wonder where she had been or what she had been doing. The blankness gave her pause, then she bolted upright, the grass quickly forgotten as it fell from her hand.

The view was magnificent. Tall trees swayed in the light breeze. The meadow where she sat went on for a distance before the tree line gave way to what could only be considered a forest or jungle. Far into the horizon, she could see mountains, tall and green, white-capped halfway toward their tops.

She looked from side to side. The view remained the same. Large grassy meadow surrounded by tall trees and shrubbery. She didn't recognize any of it, and the thought scared her. Never had she felt so alone.

Gradually she stood. Looking down, she saw that she was wearing her favorite jeans and top, but no shoes. She ran her hands down her sides. Hadn't she been falling a minute ago? It felt like that, but the memory was fading like a morning dream. Had she been asleep, or was she sleeping still? Why couldn't she remember? She closed her eyes and quickly reopened them. It was the same view and the same trees. She reached out and pinched her arm, and it hurt. If it was a dream, it sure felt real.

3

Jackson was awake before daylight. He opened his eyes slightly before moving, in case he was not alone. He wasn't. His canine companion from the night before was awake and alert, looking outward toward the end of the alley and the street beyond. The dog turned his head toward Jackson, then resumed his vigil. Jackson had to smile at that.

Still keeping an eye out for me, huh, Shadow? The dog paid him no mind, but as Jackson stood and stretched, he moved away to give him room.

I'm gonna pack up here, buddy. Let's say we round up some grub. For the first time, the dog gave a quick agreeing bark.

It was easy to find a fast-food joint nearby, and with chow in hand, they walked to a quiet area of the city park a few blocks away. Jackson chose a worn wooden bench and sat. Shadow continued his vigilance but had time to consume the half of a breakfast burrito that Jackson offered him. The dog ate the rice and beans wrapped in a flour tortilla, with gusto, and Jackson felt a little guilty as he ate his half with calmer reservation. Shadow let him eat his half in peace, without begging for more, leaving Jackson once again impressed. This dog had been well trained by someone, but without a collar, the man couldn't imagine who. Since Jackson's plan involved a search of the immediate neighborhood, keeping an eye out for Lost Dog signs would be easy. Last night's savior was not a mangy stray and had to belong to someone.

Jackson looked at the dog thoroughly now that it was light out. He was a mixed breed of some type, perhaps some kind of German shepherd, but not quite. One thing Jackson was sure of, the dog had been extraordinarily trained, akin to a police or military dog. The way he had bit down on the head hood the prior evening was proof that this was no ordinary dog.

Breakfast finished; Jackson stood and shifted his pack into place. The encampment was five blocks east on a central but less traveled street. With dog in tow, he began to walk around the deserted park. A small cinderblock structure revealed a restroom, and Jackson ducked in and took care of his business, taking time to run soap and water over his face and hands. Shadow waited outside, but upon exiting the facilities, Jackson turned the valve open on the water pipe under the fountain, allowing Shadow a chance to drink. Once finished, Shadow walked with a steady gait, but always next to Jackson, his fur brushing against the man's leg. This was more indication of patient training, nothing instinctual. They walked down the sidewalk, passing people going about their daily business, folks in suits or summer attire starting their day, cars passing, horns honking, all the sounds of the big city. The man and the dog did not draw passersby's attention, just the way Jackson liked it. In turn, the dog paid scant attention to those they passed on the sidewalk, maintaining his distance, only glancing at them if they came close.

The homeless encampment came into view. A man with a dog during the day would not attract anyone's attention as it would at night. The packs of cigarettes he had purchased at a convenience store before arriving in Cleveland might loosen a few loose lips as needed. Jackson shifted the backpack again, slowing his stride as they drew close to the first tent. Shadow continued to walk close to his side.

2

1

As she looked toward the distant trees formed against the background of thin white clouds, Sydney spotted the birds she had been hearing. For a moment, she forgot her troubles and stood watching as the aerial acrobats flew far above the forest, their wings slapping the air of a brilliant blue sky. There were so many of them moving so fast, Sydney discarded the idea of keeping count. She watched them as they disappeared within the treetops, only to reappear moments later, soaring so high that Sydney had to shade her eyes from the sun to follow their movement.

It afforded her only a momentary distraction, and she sighed. She surveyed the meadow then the edge of where it stopped before becoming the forest. Where she stood seemed smaller now in comparison to the vastness of the distant trees. She swallowed hard. Everything reminded her of how completely lost she was. All the choices were impossible, yet clear. Either stay where she was or head toward the beckoning unknown. Briefly, she cast caution to the side and began to walk.

She put her hand above her eyes and glanced overhead to determine the direction of the sun, a trick she had learned from someone whom she couldn't remember. She wasn't sure how that helped her, but having a direction to navigate her starting point gave her reassurance and confidence. She needed all of that she could get.

From where Sydney had started her walk, the trees had seemed distant and small. Now looking into them from the forest's edge, she was amazed at their grandeur. Each spiraling trunk with their grasping leafy twigs reached far into the beckoning sky. With their branches overloaded with leaves obscuring her view of the daylight heavens, she felt a twinge of apprehension. She stopped and looked back. Again, she considered running to where she had begun, and she closed her eyes wondering if there was any right choice. Shaking her head, she reopened her eyes and took a single deep breath. Could she just sit in the empty meadow waiting for help that may never come? What good would that do? She was either lost in an open field or in an enormous forest. Either way, being lost, not knowing where she had been or where she was going, all seemed to be a bad way to start the day.

And now she was conversing inside her own head. She congratulated herself that at least she wasn't speaking aloud, although maybe that might be next.

Sydney ventured further into the forest. The sound of the birds from afar seemed soothing in a strange way. She could even understand their whispers and chirps. Were they talking to each other? Were they talking to her? The sounds were certainly birdlike, but within her head, she clearly heard their cheerful voices calling melodically to her.

Now I am crazy. This time, she did speak the words out loud just to hear her voice. She had spoken softly, and the birds quieted for a moment. Did you hear me? she asked. The soothing response came in song, and this time she didn't interpret their noise as anything else but birds chirping and whistling. That's good, she said and laughed. For a minute there, I wasn't sure. I thought you might have been talking to me!

The forest didn't offer a trail, but Sydney walked easily through the trunks of trees toward something she couldn't determine. She was sure she didn't know this path, but somehow it felt safe. The trees were spaced wide enough for her to walk around and between. She turned back every few moments to look where she had had been. She wanted to make sure that she could navigate her return if she wanted to, but intuitively she knew the further she moved into the forest the harder it would be to do. She stared up into the expanse of the treetops to see the sun. It was still visible; the movement of the leaves changed the surrounding daylight across the branches—nature's kaleidoscope. That brought a slight smile of relief across her face. She knew if she lost sight of the sun that she would never be able to find her way back to the meadow. Somehow that seemed important. She clung carefully to each small piece of familiarity that she could in a world that now offered her none.

There was a sound to her right. It wasn't the birds nor the fluttering of leaves. She stopped and held her breath.

It sounded like running water. Not heavy water like waves or a waterfall but the gentle splashing of a stream. Water would be welcome, and the thought of a drink made her thirsty. She swallowed dryly, venturing forward, no longer watching for the sun overhead. She quickened her pace, stepping around brush and branch toward the sound. A wide stream came into view. The water wasn't deep, but it was moving rapidly through a pebble strewn streambed worn into the ground. The stream looked clear and clean, and upon reaching the edge, she knelt and dipped her hand into the coolness and raised it to her mouth. God, it tasted good.

She didn't see the dark form that watched her from a distance. The birds sang no warning.

2

Jackson walked along the sidewalk in as leisurely a manner as he could muster quickly passing the first dozen tents. The lack of planned order was evident; tents and cardboard lean-tos were assembled next to one another in a haphazard manner. The sidewalk was wide, allowing the homeless to set up their vinyl and nylon lodgings, interspersed with an occasional shopping cart. Boxes of gathered belongings held together with cardboard and twine laid about unbothered. Small groups of the impoverished were out of their makeshift homes, talking and sitting on what was available, drinking out of thermoses or used cups that had seen a thousand sips.

Shadow strode alongside Jackson, without a need to be given direction. When Jackson paused, Shadow paused. When Jackson stopped, Shadow stopped. Jackson wasn't sure who had adopted who regarding his new guardian. He had done nothing to earn the dog's loyalty, but his newly named friend walking next to him felt right. He had glanced about for postings inquiring about a lost dog. Surely someone's pet would be missed, and any owner would certainly want him back, possibly offering a substantial reward. Resigned to the fact that sooner or later he would discover Shadow's real owner, he decided to not get used to his new constant companion. Instead, he would enjoy the dog's company for as long as he had it.

Nice dog, mister, came a voice from the opening of a worn tent. Jackson turned to see the cheerful comment coming from a tiny face. The girl was young, probably no more than eight, younger than his daughter, Sydney. Her hair was neatly pulled back, her face washed, and she gave Jackson a million-dollar smile. Jackson returned it.

His name is Shadow, and he is a very good dog, Jackson replied assuredly. As if in understanding, Shadow went up to the small waif and looked at her with the sort of welcoming grin that can only be made by a dog.

Can I pet him? she asked, and it gave Jackson pause. Without waiting for an answer, her small hand reached out, and she ran her fingers through Shadow's fur. In reply, Shadow licked her arm lightly once.

Well, he likes you better than he likes me. Jackson chuckled, and he wondered about the big pooch. Dogs got a mind of his own, that was for sure.

Are your parents around? Jackson tried to phrase his question in as friendly but noncreepy manner as possible. The girl was old enough to know better than to talk to strangers, but the dog had been his way in. Jackson knew that in the homeless society, strangers weren't always appreciated. To gain trust, he had to tread carefully, passing himself off as one of them, a drifter of sorts. That was easy and a necessary stretch of the truth. He knew the homeless came from every walk of life, and too often, poverty had snuck up on them with unexpected ruthlessness. For them, life's harsh realities continued to widen into what would quickly become a spiraling trap. Once that happened, hope vanished into the never-ending days and nights of fear and unbearable heartache. For those who viewed from afar, these makeshift encampments with their endless squatters were nothing more than a scar, a societal outrage. Average folks preferred to ignore the plight of those less fortunate, hoping it would all just one day magically disappear. Jackson had learned a lot since hitting the streets in his search, and he knew every homeless person had their own story to tell. It tore at Jackson's heart strings to see the downtrodden close. It was even worse when homelessness reared up and snared the innocent. He smiled again at the girl.

My mom is over there getting breakfast. I already ate, she said, happily pointing toward a parking lot where a serving line was fifteen people deep. Jackson glanced over and then looked back at the girl who now had both hands scratching behind Shadow's ears. The dog seemed to be enjoying the attention, and Jackson laughed.

I'm heading that way myself, but I'm looking for someone just a little older than you. Maybe you can help me? Jackson stuck two fingers into his front shirt pocket for the picture he had pulled out hundreds of times. He showed it to the girl.

Naw, I never seen them, came her reply, and despite how many times he had asked, this answer still brought the hurtful pang of disappointment. You might want to ask Bertie, she offered.

Where can I find Bertie? asked Jackson

Right behind you, came her reply.

Shadow had already detected the man long before he had stepped behind Jackson. The dog didn't growl or move, but his ears were pressed back and tail low. He eyed the stranger with a guard dog's singular distrust. Jackson had also sensed the man, but his training stopped him from making any quick movements. Best to turn slowly and size things up. At first, he glanced away from the girl then turned completely.

Bertie was tall, lean, and weathered in a way that Jackson might expect. His clothes were old, but clean from hundreds of washings. His hair was pulled back into a makeshift ponytail partially covered by a Cleveland Indians ball cap. He was unshaven, but otherwise well-kept. Jackson knew that Bertie was measuring him in the same manner that he was being measured. Taking the chance, Jackson stuck out his hand.

Good to meet you, he said. Bertie glanced down then up, indicative of cold nonapproval. Jackson maintained the posture overlong then with a smile dropped his arm to his side.

I haven't seen you around, Bertie declared, his voice devoid of warmth.

Yeah, I haven't been around. I got here yesterday. Jackson paused, waiting for a reply that never came. I'm looking for a place to lie my head. Better to keep his story as simple as possible. Bertie eyed him with palpable suspicion.

Where're you from? asked Bertie. Now his eyes were looking at the pocket where Jackson had returned the photo. Shadow hadn't moved, but neither had he taken his eyes from the man.

Texas. Got lucky to catch a ride up here. I only had to thumb it twice, he lied. Thought I would try a bit of Midwestern hospitality for a change of pace.

There's plenty of that around…just not here. Bertie's curt reply was to be expected. Jackson had hoped for a better first meeting with the guy who clearly considered himself the self-appointed leader of the encampment, but a suspicious nature came with the territory. There's been some trouble lately, we're not looking to add more, offered the man. That was more information than Jackson had anticipated, and he pretended to ignore it, but the comment was certainly interesting.

Well, just looking for a place to take a load off for a couple of days…me and my pal. He waved his hand in Shadow's direction. Shadow never let his gaze waver from Bertie.

That's some dog. I don't recognize the breed. Jackson scoffed slightly under his breath. So suddenly Bertie's a dog expert? Jackson looked down at Shadow. Grudgingly, he didn't recognize Shadow's breed either. Jackson immediately decided not to disclose that he knew very little about the dog. What Bertie didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

Well, he's all American is what I can tell you, but he'll eat a burrito too. Jackson laid his hand on Shadow's forehead. Shadow allowed this, and once again, Jackson got the feeling that the dog was playing a part, and everyone else was an extra on his movie set.

He's a super nice dog, mister! The sweet little girl reached out and stroked Shadow on the back.

Jackson. My name is Jackson. He turned his head to address the girl. And this big boy has really taken a liking to you, young lady.

So, Jackson, you just traveling through or what? Bertie interrupted, his face a picture of annoyance. He certainly wasn't going to be deterred from this line of questioning. He moved forward in a way that revealed to Jackson that Bertie liked to intimidate people by his height. Jackson held his ground but heard the faint rumble of a growl from Shadow's throat. Best to tread lightly, friend.

Yeah, I'll be moving on for now, but you'll see me again. That's a promise. By the way, what kind of trouble did you say you were having? Jackson figured it was fair game to ask. After all, Bertie had brought it up.

I didn't say, he replied, a touch of nastiness to his tone, but, you know, the usual stuff… People coming, people going. Sometimes people just disappear. He stopped talking and stared hard at Jackson and the dog.

Yeah…speaking of disappearing, I'll see you around. Jackson turned his back on Bertie. C'mon, Shadow. Say goodbye to your new friend, we have a few things we have to do.

Again, Shadow seemed to understand only too well, as he turned and pressed his head against the small girl's chest. The tiny waif, completely charmed by the big hound, wrapped her arms tightly around the dog's neck. After a moment, the canine gave her one friendly nudge and moved to Jackson's side.

So there is a soft side to you, furry buddy, he murmured. A moment later, he moved down the sidewalk past more ramshackle tents. This first encounter was disappointing. His intent to pursue the only lead he had was going to be a lot harder now. If Bertie was continuously hanging around, it just made for a complication he didn't need. Too bad, he still needed to get information regarding the tip, but his optimism was fading fast. The little girl and the mom matched the tip's description of what he had heard. He had to be sure, but nothing looked promising. All that was left for him to do was a bit more investigation; after all, he had come all the way back to Cleveland. Working around the unsocial Bertie would be an annoyance, but easy enough. Maybe, just maybe, he could pick up another clue before moving on.

3

After dipping several handfuls of cool water to her mouth, Sydney made the choice to follow the stream. She had read somewhere that if she was lost and followed the flow of running water, she might find someone, as people liked to live close to rivers. The water had tasted cool and refreshing, and she was reassured she wouldn't die of thirst. Not that dying was close to her thoughts, but a nagging fear nibbled at her. It was when she was about to cast the thought aside that she stumbled upon a small clearing where the swirling water of the stream widened into a larger pool.

It was beautiful. The view could have been a photo taken from a magazine, and she stood mesmerized, her eyes taking in every aspect of nature's glory, including the bear.

She froze upon spotting the creature on her righthand side, but the bear regarded her indifferently. The animal was enormous beyond belief, with a shaggy brown head the size of a watermelon and arms like tree trunks. Sydney couldn't remember ever having seen anything so big and so close. The bear didn't move but watched her as one would view a sight seldom seen, brow furrowed and a single leg dangling lazily in the wetness of the pool. The rest of its body reclined comfortably against a tree trunk. It appeared that she had interrupted the beast from a midday nap.

Sydney wasn't sure what to do. She recalled that you should never run from a bear, but was that the correct course of action? The bear didn't seem to be menacing at all, only curious to see her, that single leg continued kicking gently at the water in a tranquil back-and-forth motion. Keeping an eye on her, the bear continued to sit in repose, not bothered at all by the appearance of a stranger walking through the forest. Sydney began to step back carefully, watching the huge beast. The bear stared back. One slow step, then another. The bear shifted position ever so slightly. Did he suspect that she was poised to run? Just when she thought she couldn't stand there waiting a second longer, a sound came from the bear's mouth.

It sounded like a rumble, but then again, it wasn't. The bear growled more and looked at her as if expecting her to reply. Was she understanding what the bear was saying in this strange gravelly roar? She shook her head in amazement. She understood exactly what the bear was saying.

You came all this way to this beautiful spot. You might as well sit for a while. To add substance to the invitation, the bear waved his huge, clawed paw in what appeared to be a magnanimous gesture of acceptance.

You talk! exclaimed Sydney. You talk! The desire to run had temporarily abandoned her. She stared slack mouthed at the beast.

And so do you, replied the bear.

How is that possible? she asked. Bears don't talk! I've never heard of a bear that could talk!

Well, now you're just being rude, said the bear. Maybe where you're from, folks don't talk, but here, we all have a say.

You're right. Where I'm from, bears don't talk, but then again, I'm not sure I even know where I'm from right now! Sydney started to feel a little more comfortable, and the thought of running had all but left her. After all, she was in a forest having a conversation with a bear. Maybe she had hit her head when she landed in the meadow. That would explain everything.

Sit down, if you've decided to not run off. The bear shifted into another relaxing pose, dipping the other leg into the pool and extracting the already soaked one. With the same paw that the bear had welcomed Sydney, it reached out and grabbed a few small flowers that were growing in haphazard bouquets close to the water. In one swift motion, the bear popped a few into its prodigious mouth and started to chew slowly.

My name's Joe, said the bear. It's short for Joseph, but no one calls me that. The bear stopped chewing while he looked at the remaining flowers in his paw. The growls and snarls that came from his mouth continued to be mysteriously understandable to the confused girl.

Sydney, she replied, my name is Sydney. She never took her eyes from the huge bear, still incredulous that this impossible conversation was happening.

Sydney. That's a very nice name. Does it have a meaning behind it? asked Joe. He seemed completely absorbed in what she had to say. He pulled up a few nearby flowers, and they also disappeared into his mouth.

My dad named me, she said and then wondered how she knew that, or even how she remembered it. How could she know something like that and not remember anything else?

She thought about pinching herself again and thought better of it. If this was a dream, what did awake feel like? Dream or not, she was talking to a bear. The bear had also told her that his name was Joe. Could it get any stranger?

I was named by Solomon, said Joe as if that explained everything. It was a great honor and one that I will never forget. Before that, I didn't have a name. Joe leaned back, placing his arms behind his head, but he kept his eyes on Sydney.

Who is Solomon? she asked, feeling timid about the question. Perhaps that might be considered rude as well. Joe had growled in remembrance as if it had great personal meaning and in a manner indicating everyone should know who Solomon was.

Joe looked at her, a flower fragment drooping out of one side of his mouth. Without a second thought, he swiped at it, and the flower fell to the ground. The silence was total except for the chirping of birds, which Sydney began to understand. In the quiet of the forest, things seemed dreamy real.

You're new here, so we should go see Dr. Henry, Joe declared as if she would know who this Dr. Henry was any more than the mysterious Solomon. Would you care for some of these delicious flowers before we go? The casualness of the offer seemed quite natural.

I'll pass on the flowers for now, said Sydney, but maybe I'll try a few of them later.

Suit yourself, replied Joe.

Sydney continued to stare at the bear. The bear in turn stood and then dropped to all fours and began to amble through the trees toward an unknown destination.

If this was a dream, it was the most realistic one that she could ever remember having. She glanced back at the direction she had come. With a nervous shrug of her shoulders, she turned and began to follow the bear.

3

1

A block from the encampment, Jackson discovered a short cinderblock wall that separated an abandoned building from its parking lot. Jackson glanced at the structure with its boxlike smooth dark faux marble surface and large windows carefully boarded up with discolored plywood. A faded plastic sign hung on the double chained door indicating the building was For Lease. A phone number and company name were inscribed under the words. Jackson shrugged and dropped his backpack to the side and sat. He had already walked past dozens of these buildings in the last few blocks, all empty, most likely victims of the pandemic. He sat, straddling the divider. From there, he wouldn't be able to see the entirety of the three-block encampment, but he had most of it in his line of sight. He knew a good strategic position when it presented itself. Located far enough away that he wouldn't be discovered spying on the group from anyone who might care, but close enough to watch frequently used entrances and exits. He pulled a plain metal thermos out of his backpack and unscrewed the cap. Having filled it with fresh water from the park, he poured a generous amount into the cup and took a swig directly from the bottle. He offered the cup to Shadow, who lapped at the water for a moment and then pushed it away with his snout. The big canine uttered a low woof.

You're welcome, buddy, said Jackson. You've better manners than most people. Shadow looked at him and then turned to watch the encampment. Four eyes are better than two, thought Jackson whimsically, wishing that he could convey to the dog what he was watching for. Shadow was smart, but no dog was that smart. Jackson's musings were immediately disrupted from the low rumble originating from the dog's throat. Jackson turned his head in the direction Shadow was looking.

Almost out of view, in the far corner of the encampment, a trio of men were conversing with good old Bertie. From what Jackson could tell, it was just conversation, nothing unusual about that, except one of the men had a white