ACT I

I was small. The factory was big and smelled like rust and old rain. There were holes in the roof and the rain came through in thin lines and I followed the lines because they all met in the same puddle and the puddle smelled like water and that was enough.

Then I heard breathing. Slow and heavy, like the old dogs at the shelter before they stopped coming. I followed the breathing to a door that was half-open and went inside.

She was on the floor. A girl, very big, with her face in her arms and her shoulders shaking. She smelled like salt and old sweat and something else — something that made my chest tight and my eyes wet. I did not like that smell. It was the smell of the old dogs too. The ones who stopped getting up.

I went closer. She stopped shaking. She lifted her face and her eyes were red and her nose was red and everything about her was red. She looked at me and her mouth opened and a sound came out that was not a word and not a cry but something in between.

I sat down. I did not come closer. I did not go away.

She reached out her hand. Her fingers were long and dirty and they shook a little. I sniffed them. They smelled like dirt and salt and the salt smell was weaker now. I put my nose in her palm. She closed her fingers around my head and her hand was warm and it did not shake anymore.

She said something. I did not know the word but I knew the sound. It was the sound of the shelter volunteer making when she put food in my bowl. It was a good sound.

I decided to stay.

ACT II

Her name was Lily. I learned this from the volunteer, from the people who brought her food and left it by the door and went away quick-like. Lily was the sound they made when they said her name. Sometimes it was a sharp sound. Sometimes it was a soft sound. I liked the soft sound better.

She got bigger. Not fatter — she was already big. She got... different. The metal things came first. She brought them into the factory in a big cart and they smelled like oil and hot iron. She put them on her back and they made noises — clicks and hisses and a low hum that I could feel in my teeth.

Then came the cart with the flat box on a stick. She pushed it into the center of the factory and pointed the flat box at herself and sat down in front of it. She adjusted the stick and the box and then she looked at me and her mouth moved and the sound came out:

"I'm Lily. You can call me—"

She stopped. She looked at the box again. Her hands shook. I went over and put my head on her knee. Her hand came down on my fur and her heartbeat was fast but steady.

"I'm Lily," she said again. "You can call me Lily."

The box made a light that was not sunlight and not firelight. It was a cold light that made her face look different. Harder. But her eyes were still her eyes. I knew that.

She talked to the box for a long time. She told it about the factory and the rain and the metal things on her back and the way the river smelled different every week. She told it about the volunteers and how they stopped coming. She told it about the things that came out of the river and how she fought them with the metal things on her back and how she did not want to but she had to.

I listened. I did not understand the words but I understood the sounds. The fast sounds were the angry sounds. The slow sounds were the sad sounds. The sounds that came when she put her hand on my fur were the good sounds. I stayed for the good sounds.

Weeks went by. I grew. My legs got longer and my chest got wider and my teeth got bigger. I was no longer small. I was big. But she was still big and when I pressed against her she did not feel any bigger than before.

The river kept changing smell. Some weeks it smelled like fish and mud, which was normal. Some weeks it smelled like chemicals and something I did not have a name for. When it smelled wrong, she put on the metal things and went outside. She came back different every time. Her smell changed. Her heartbeat changed. Sometimes she came back fast and sharp. Sometimes she came back slow and heavy.

I always met her at the door.

ACT III

The biggest wrong smell came on a day that started like any other day. The rain had stopped. The factory floor was dry. I was lying in a patch of sunlight that came through a hole in the roof and Lily was adjusting the metal things on her back and the box on the stick was pointed at the door.

Then the smell hit.

It was not just wrong. It was everything wrong all at once. Chemicals and rot and something that made my stomach turn and my fur stand up. It came from the river and it was moving fast, moving toward the factory, moving toward us.

Lily's heartbeat went fast. Not the fast of anger. The fast of fear. I could smell it too — her fear was a sharp smell, like vinegar, and it mixed with the other smells and made something new that I did not like at all.

She put her hand on my head. Her fingers shook. "Stay, boy," she said. The sound was sharp and quick. "Stay here."

She went out the door. The metal things made loud noises. The river smell got stronger. I wanted to go after her. My legs wanted to move. My nose was pulling me toward the door like a rope tied around my neck.

But she had said stay.

I waited. I waited and the river smell got worse and then it started to get better. Slowly. Like someone was turning a knob. Hours went by. The sunlight moved across the factory floor. I followed it the way I always did.

Then she came back.

Her smell was tired. Her heartbeat was slow and heavy, like the old dogs at the end. She walked slowly to the door and came in and the metal things made no noises at all. She sat down on the floor and did not move.

I went over and put my head on her knee. She did not put her hand on my fur right away. She just sat there, breathing slow, her eyes open and looking at nothing.

After a long time, her hand came down. It was heavy on my head. Her heartbeat was slow. Her smell was tired but it was still her smell. It was still home.

She sat on the floor for a long time. Then she stood up slowly, the metal things clicking softly, and went to the corner where she kept the food. She opened a can and the smell was good and normal and I wagged my tail without thinking about it.

She sat down again and ate from the can with her hands. She did not use a plate. She did not use a fork. She just sat on the factory floor and ate with her hands and I sat beside her and ate from my bowl.

After, she went to the door and looked out at the river. The river smelled better now. Not good. But better. She stood there for a long time with her hand on the doorframe and her shoulders straight and then she came back and sat down and put her hand on my head and her heartbeat was slow and it was enough.

ACT IV

She sits by the window now. The big hole in the roof lets in sunlight and she sits in it and the sunlight makes her hair look like copper and her face looks less tired than it did.

The city is different. The river is different. She is different.

But her smell is still home.

When I lie beside her, she puts her hand on my fur. Her heartbeat is slow. It does not shake. It does not speed up. It is steady and warm and it is the only sound she makes and it is enough.

I rest my head on her leg. Her hand is in my fur. The sunlight is warm. The river smells like water and mud and sometimes, if I press my nose close enough, I can still smell the girl who was red and salty and afraid, and the girl who was not afraid anymore, and the girl who is somewhere in between, and all three of them are her and all three of them are home.

The factory is quiet. The rain has stopped. The metal things are in the corner and they make no noises. She is not wearing them. She does not need them right now.

She strokes my ear with one finger. The way she always does. The bad ear that never stands up. I close my eyes. My leg twitches. Her heartbeat is slow.

This is enough.