Dawn Fire

Ever hour she awoke in a new room. Every hour the black dog with the splayed hips found her. His will alone propelled him forward, often working against the best efforts of his legs. And he curled up inside her, nesting himself in the cradle of her body and breathing in time with her breath. And then it happened of course that she up and left him there without even knowing it. Without even knowing it. Up and moved to a new fire--though there was no fire--where he would find her again. And claim her as home. She did not wake with the sunrise but beat it to that moment--precisely twenty seconds before the buzzer could shatter the dark peace. She lay their captive, wondering how it was the dog always stayed at the last campfire. How the dog knew.