Bernard ambles down the block tethered to a small white terrier he used to call That Damned Dog, because it chewed his favorite loafers, woke him at 5 a.m. for walks, and wormed its way into the bed between them. Now, as the evening shadows grow longer and the streetlights click on, he calls the dog “Honey” because it’s what he used to call his wife and holds the six-foot-long purple leash tighter.

He was so sweet, this blonde, blue-eyed man who shyly said hello when I first met him. But then he left for America. As I sailed to meet him, I thought about leaving my family. I supposed it could be lonely with no family around. My uncle said he would send me money to come back home, but I could never ask. I won’t go back. There is nothing left.

The Hole by Shikhar Dixit

Jake discovered the hole on Saturday. Behind the recliner, a circular tunnel in sheetrock vanished into shadow.
That night, a sound awoke him:
Was it the scrabbling of rodents in the hole?
Was it thundering … inside?
It reminded him of a rabid bear, years ago. Jake took down the lockbox. Inserted a fresh magazine into the Glock.    
In the living room, he met It.
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They found him Tuesday. On account of the odor ...