the mountain

Driving up the hill, engine grudging. View bare to one side (white postage stamp perforation nearly visible round the edges), the road in a state approximating winter. One car off the road in the trees, but at the top a church to look twice at. Fumbling with her phone, she pulls into the lot there where one red car is parked.

Immediately flick down the mirror, tapping lotion on her lips and answering. Around the building a cleared yard, not landscaped.

Where I work? I don't think so, no. I've heard people talk.... Exactly. I think there was a sign. In the window or something. Yes, fine.

There's a dog with a leash trailing, looping through, at the window. She's patting her bag, next to her on the seat, leaving it sitting. Tucking the phone under chin and shifting feet toward the door.

Alright, honey. The other side of the yard studded with marble. Opening it, one foot out, putting phone down. Still looking at her lips, there's a man running toward the car also. She doesn't see that, opening the door further, though he's right there.

And scream- loud. Deep growling voice of that big dog moving toward her. The man behind it grabs the leash, well familiar with catching that Cujo thing in the air. He tells her to stay where she is. She slams the door and one palm into the glass. Eyes meet over the dogs head as he pulls it away, and she slowly eases into first gear with a foot off brake.