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Bruce has been living alone in an abandoned house in the last town that everyone has run from. The rumours of a monster have chased even the most resilient of families from the crumbling concrete, and the bugs are the only things remaining other than Bruce.
He wanders in the day, in abandoned stores and gardens and homes, collecting anything edible. He won’t die if he doesn’t eat, but if he gets bad enough the Other Guy might come out looking. So he eats and he drinks, and he washes under plastic bags of water that he pokes holes in.
He thinks, sometimes.
About calling a friend.
Then he remembers that he has no friends.
He is doing this exact thing, his eyes brimming with tears at the pure loneliness. It’s worse than usual, probably brought on by the lack of sleep, and the sight of some old family photographs in one of the houses that he looked in for food.
Before he knows it, he’s sobbing, gross and body-wracking, salt and snot and a bunched up ball on the concrete in the middle of the town.
There are small blades of grass pushing their way through the concrete and he grasps some, yanking them out into the fading daylight, letting them fall to the ground, dead.
Wasteful.
He hasn’t stopped crying, and he is beginning to wear himself out. He will stop soon, he tells himself, as the pavement continues to be speckled with his tears.
There is a noise, and unfamiliar one, and Bruce looks up from the grey cement.
Sitting there, in front of his sobbing form is… a dog.
It’s reasonably sized, a warm brown, panting happily in his direction.
It nudges forwards, and licks his tear-covered face.
Bruce can’t help but allow the tiniest of smiles to grace his lips.
He gently holds a hand forward, and pets the dog, lightly. It leans into his hand and he adds another, and it wags it’s tail happily and jumps forwards to lick his face again.
“No, salt’s bad for you!” He cries, smiling widely.
It cocks its head and then jumps at him again, knocking him backwards onto the concrete.
Bruce cries out and when he opens his eyes a second later the dog is staring him in the face, slobbering onto his shirt.
He laughs.
It’s joyous, free, soul-filled. He lets it out and it travels across the surrounding area, and the trees and the buildings ring with the breathless cries of a man who has not laughed for years.
The dog barks at him as he laughs and lies down on his stomach.
Bruce can see the dog lifting up and down again as his chest heaves with the laughter, more tears streaming down his face.
You’re not alone.
Bruce sits himself up, the laughter bubbling to a close, and plays with the dog’s ears, and pets it.
You’re good enough.
He pulls the dog in for a hug, and it places it’s paws on his shoulders and licks at his face again, making Bruce recoil from the slobber playfully.
This dog seems to think so.
“Do you have a name, buddy?” He asks the dog.
“Bork!” It responds.
A quick check reveals that he is a boy dog.
“Alright then, guess your name is Bork for now. Come on, boy. Let’s go somewhere warmer.” Bruce beams, leading the dog back to the abandoned building he had been squatting in.
He gathers some blankets and makes the dog a bed, before settling next to him on the floor. He curls up next to Bruce and falls asleep, and he feels a lot less alone.
“Dogs can sense if you have a good soul, Bruce. If a dog trusts you, then that means that you are worth trusting.”
“Is that really true, mom?”
“Would I lie to you, darling? Of course it is. One day, you can get your very own dog, and they will trust you so much because of the overwhelming good in your soul.”
“I hope so, mom.”
“Alright, let’s get you to bed.”
His mother was right all along.