The Bear in the Basement

The party was already low-key dead when Jace pulled me toward the basement stairs. Freshman year was halfway done and I was still basically invisible, which was fine mostly, except when Jace got ideas.

"Trust me, Maya, it's legendary," he insisted, already halfway down the stairs. I followed, mainly because refusing would require actual confidence I didn't possess.

The basement smelled like stale chips and something else — something alive. That's when I heard the whining.

"No way," I whispered.

"His name's Buster," Jace said, gesturing to the corner where a massive dog — like, actual bear-sized — was currently collapsing someone's mom's throw pillows. "He's an emotional support animal. My cousin's friend brought him."

The dog looked like a wolf who'd given up on hunting and decided to embrace the soft life. Also, he was currently chewing a very expensive-looking shoe.

"Jace, that's not emotional support. That's destruction of property."

"He's a good boy!" someone yelled from upstairs. "Let him live his truth!"

Then came the pounding on the back door. The kind of pounding that meant parents or cops or both.

"Running?" Jace asked, eyes wide.

"Running," I confirmed.

But the dog — Buster, apparently — had other plans. He decided this was the perfect moment to start howling, a sound that reached notes I didn't know could come from anything on Earth. And that's when I learned that Buster wasn't actually some random dog.

"That's a BEAR dog," someone screamed. "My neighbor's got one. They're bred to hunt bears. That thing weighs 180 pounds!"

We stared at each other. The dog stared back, shoe still in mouth, judging us.

"He's not hunting anything except those pillows," I said, but it was too late. People were scrambling, someone knocked over a lamp, and suddenly Jace and I were the only ones left in the basement with a creature the size of a smart car.

The dog ambled over and collapsed on my feet like I was a piece of furniture he'd been searching for his whole life.

"Well," Jace said. "Guess we're not running anywhere."

We sat there for twenty minutes while the door-pounding continued upstairs. I learned Jace's parents were divorcing, he learned I was failing algebra, and we both learned that sometimes the most terrifying things (giant dogs, high school, being seen) are just waiting for someone to sit still long enough to let them collapse on your feet like you're exactly where they need to be.

"Friend?" Jace asked finally, as the dog's breathing evened out into sleep-sounds.

"Friend," I said, and meant it.