A Stranger Thing (The Ever-Expanding Universe) by Martin Leicht, Isla Neal

going, Pontius and me,” I say, leaning down to rub Pontius’s muzzle. “Don’t we, boy?” He’s a beautiful tan husky, and other than Oates, I’m the only person that Pontius will play with. Unless you count when he stole Cole’s hat right off his head and buried it behind the cabin.
    “He’s a good judge of character,” Oates replies.
    The dogs whine and whimper as Oates tears into the first bag, but as soon as he pours the kibble into the trough, the canines go to town, shoving at each other for prime food-gobbling position. Pontius allows me one last nuzzle before leaving to join them.
    While the dogs chow down, I turn and stare out into the snow, which this afternoon is mostly masked by a heavy blanket of white fog. I can barely see more than a few hundred meters before the snow and the fog meld into one giant splotch of white. Out here, in the crisp air, my thoughts slow their frantic swirling and begin to settle at the surface of my brain.
    “It’s easy to find yourself a little stir-crazy at first,” Oates says, reading me like a book. “Tensions invariably flare between even dear friends. It will pass.”
    “What if it doesn’t?” I ask.
    Oates shrugs. “Then it doesn’t.”
    Great.
    “I’m fine, really,” I say. “Just some drama with Ducky and Cole.”
    Oates nods, the kind of polite nod that indicates that he’d rather be talking about just about anything besides my teenage girl feelings. He turns around holding the two empty bagsand moves without saying a word toward the large incinerator unit that’s about thirty yards away from the cabin. He glances behind him when he’s about halfway there, and I realize he means for me to follow him. I leave the chomping dogs and rush to catch up.
    No one ever bothers to shovel out this stretch, and the snowdrifts are nearly a meter high, so I have to push hard to keep up. Oates, of course, cuts through the snow like it’s powder. I stop a few meters behind Oates as he opens the chute to the incinerator feeder and tosses the empty bags in. Once he closes the chute, a sudden puff of black smoke shoots up into the air and quickly dissipates. Oates busies himself with something on the side of the incinerator.
    “You’re fortunate to have two men here who love you very dearly, Miss Elvie,” Oates says.
    “Love?” I practically choke on my own spit. How carefully has this guy been listening to my conversations? When did me and my buddies become the new Cape Crozier daytime soap? “Well, I don’t think it’s quite that drama—”
    “Your child’s father, and your own,” Oates clarifies.
    “Ah.” Clearly I’m the only one with the soap opera fantasies. “Er, yeah,” I say. “I guess that’s true.”
    “The lad Donald is quite protective of you as well,” Oates continues. “This is good.” He looks at me, and even though his mouth stays even, his eyes smile down on me warmly. “It’s good to have friends you can rely on to stay true.”
    “Oates, who was she?” I ask. “The woman who got you sent here.” The question’s been buzzing in my brain for weeks: What was she like, the mysterious woman so lovely that shecould sway stoic, duty-bound Titus Oates away from the Code?
    If Oates is taken aback by my brashness, he doesn’t let on. “No woman, Miss,” he says quietly.
    “But I thought all you guys here had broken the Code and had, er . . . relations with an extra Earth girl or two.”
    “There are laws that govern us beyond the Code, child,” Oates replies, an old, lingering sadness in his voice.
    “So what are you here for, then?” Hell, if I’m already in this deep, I might as well keep digging. “Industrial espionage? Genocide? Were you one of the studio execs who green-lit Sucker Punch ?”
    Oates bends down and resumes fiddling with the incinerator. “I’m here,” he says, “for staying true to my friends.”
    “Dude,” I say, feeling the ice starting to break ever so slightly, “I’m stuck in this