The Dog Stars

families. I had dropped her off in the morning and she said to pick her up for dinner, she wanted to be there all day. She was dispensing a vitamin D infusion, but I knew it was for the children. She couldn’t stay away from them.

I was working in the garden. She was away. Bangley was playing chess with Pops. That’s what they did. They sat on the porch of my house in the creaking chairs and played chess like it was a country store in some apocalyptic parody of Norman Rockwell. Bangley’s cane against the rail. He was better at chess, but his mind wandered and then Pops could beat him.

I was squashing potato bugs between my fingers and I heard a sound that I had heard so often I didn’t look up. But. It had been a long time. I craned my head, wincing eyes past the sun and there: two vapor trails. Parallel but one behind. And the distant dopplered rush of receding engines.

Not dreaming, no.

I hadn’t run so fast. In years. Got to the Beast and hit the master switch and flipped on the radio. I had a Narco scanner which ran the digits, the frequencies up through the silence and nothing. Static. Around and around went the numbers. Stopped like a roulette wheel. A break, a fraying of the grayness. A voice, words. Before I pushed the mike button I made myself listen and I couldn’t understand. It was Arabic. Had to be. A conversation, laughter. Heading west at thirty thousand feet. Heading probably to California. From up there, we, our airport, would be indistinguishable from the rest of the landscape, the decaying infrastructure. I called and called. The two jets, 747s, Erie, two 747s Erie. Boeing 747s who just overflew Denver, this is Erie. I called and called. Until my voice was hoarse and the streamers of steam were a white memory, a mirage. I stared after them kind of stunned. Good or bad?

A week later, exactly, two more. About the same time. And the next week. The fourth week nothing. The four of us gathered on the porch at the afternoon hour like waiting for some fireworks or a dignitary. And nothing.

They could have immunity, she said. A race could have immunity. Or clusters of immunity. The Arab countries are tribal. An entire tribe could be immune.

In September, two more flew over. Never answered my calls.

We sleep outside into October. Maybe we will all winter. The way Jasper and I used to do. Piling on the quilts. Sleep some frosty nights with wool hats on, with just our noses sticking out. Head to head or butt to butt. We name the winter constellations and when we run out of the ones we know—Orion, Taurus, Pleiades, the Chariot—we make them up. Mine are almost always animals, hers almost always food—the Sourdough Pancake with Syrup, the Soft Shell Crab au Gratin. I name one for a scrappy, fish loving dog.

I still dream Jasper is alive. Before that my heart will not go.

My favorite poem, the one by Li Shang-Yin:

When Will I Be Home?

When will I be home? I don’t know.

In the mountains, in the rainy night,

The Autumn lake is flooded.

Someday we will be back together again.

We will sit in the candlelight by the West window.

And I will tell you how I remembered you

Tonight on the stormy mountain.

Acknowledgments

Many friends and family have contributed insight and energy to the making of this book. To my first readers, Kim Yan, Lisa Jones, Jay Heinrichs, Rebecca Rowe, Helen Thorpe, John Heller, Pete Beveridge, and Caro Heller I am deeply indebted. I cannot thank you enough. Lisa, as always, was a fearless and invaluable reader and guide. Helen’s words came at the perfect time. John and Caro, my parents, have been the bravest, most creative role models.

For their close reading and expert knowledge, huge thanks to Jason Hicks; Jeff Streeter; Donna Gershten; Mike Gugeler; Kirk Johnson; and Jason Elliott, Navy SEAL. Thanks to Janis Hallowell, Nathan Fischer, Mark Lough, Ted Steinway, and David Grinspoon for more help.

Carlton Cuse was a source of great inspiration. Bobby Reedy put me on a special creek with a fly rod years ago. And thanks to Bobby and Jason Elliott for initiating me into the fearsome power of a sniper rifle.

Thanks to Brad Wieners for the first flying story and all the others.

David Halpern has been a friend and champion for many years. Without him, this book would not have been realized. I am profoundly grateful. Thanks to Kathy Robbins for everything. To Louise Quayle for such fine work. And to Charlotte Mendelson for her discernment and enthusiasm.

To my brilliant editor Jenny Jackson, I raise a glass.

And to Dave Hoerner, one of the greatest bush pilots who ever flew, thanks for teaching me to fly.

A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Peter Heller holds an MFA from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop in both fiction and poetry. An award-winning adventure writer and longtime contributor to NPR, Heller is a contributing editor at Outside magazine, Men’s Journal, and National Geographic Adventure, and a regular contributor to Bloomberg Businessweek. He is also the author of several nonfiction books, including Kook, The Whale Warriors, and Hell or High Water: Surviving Tibet’s Tsangpo River. He lives in Denver, Colorado.

ALSO BY PETER HELLER

Kook: What Surfing Taught Me About Love, Life, and Catching the Perfect Wave

The Whale Warriors: The Battle at the Bottom of the World to Save the Planet’s Largest Mammals

Hell or High Water: Surviving Tibet’s Tsangpo River

Set Free in China: Sojourns on the Edge

The Dog Stars by Peter Heller Reading Group Guide

About the Guide