The Good Shepherd

         Three of them were coming. Sam went up to them and did what he was supposed to do. He got in their way. Made them see him. He walked slow like them. He made his face go like the bad ones’ looked when they saw something they wanted.
         Sam got in front of them and made them not go the way they were going. He let them follow him for awhile, and when it was long enough, he went away from them.

         “He’s different,” the whitecoat said. “Look at him. He’s covered in bites.”
         “They’ve all got bites,” the other one said. “That’s how most of them died.”
         “Those are ones he’s gotten since he’s been here,” the whitecoat said. “He moves too quickly, too gracefully. They think he’s alive.”
         “He moves just like the rest of them.”
         “He does now,” the whitecoat said. “He’s learned.”

         Sam did what he was supposed to, most of the time. Sometimes he would sit on the swing on a porch of a house. He would push his toes against the floor and feel the nice swinging and listen to the noise of the swing with his eyes shut.
         Then he would remember what he was supposed to do, and he would walk the streets again. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.

         The whitecoat found a thing in Sam’s clothes, and he looked at it.
         “Sam,” the whitecoat said, and Sam looked up at him. The whitecoat held out his hand. “I’m glad to meet you, Sam.”
         Sam put up his own hand, and the whitecoat shook it. Sam shook hands with the whitecoat, and was glad to meet him.

         There were more of them. Sam did what he was supposed to, but there were too many of them. Some of them would follow him away, but there were too many of them. He tried again, but there were too many.
         Sam went away from them, and when he was on another street, he moved faster.
         Have to get there before they do, he thought.

         The whitecoat took him to a room where there were bad ones stuck to the wall, tied up with metal. Any time an alive person was close to them, the bad ones went forward fast, trying to bite and trying to bite and trying to bite.
         Sam knew about the hunger. He remembered once in a room out in the world, before the whitecoats came, there was a bad one with no legs sitting on the floor of a room. The bad one had no belly either--it was all ripped out. The bad one would try to eat, and what it ate would fall out of the hole in his belly. The bad one would pick it up off the floor of the room and eat it again.
         Sam hadn’t eaten anything for a long time.

         Sam went to the edge of the City. The greencoat there had a bad gun, and he lifted it up at Sam, but then he saw the collar on his neck.
         “What is it?” the greencoat said.
         Sam pointed back where he had come from.
         “Are they coming? How many?”
         “Lots,” Sam wanted to say, but he couldn’t. He pointed back where he had come from.
         “Okay,” the greencoat said. He talked into a black thing fast and low so Sam couldn’t hear.
         “Come here,” the greencoat said, and Sam went.
         The greencoat held a shiny thing up to Sam’s collar.
         “Sam,” the greencoat said, and Sam looked up at him. “You’re a good one, Sam,” the greencoat said. “Go on back to where you’re supposed to be. Thank you, Sam.”
         Sam was glad to meet him.

         “He’s a good one,” the whitecoat said, and he had smiles in his voice.
         “Does he know what he’s supposed to do?” the other one said.
         Sam knew what he was supposed to do. Keep them away from the City. Especially the bad ones. They didn’t need to be at the city. They didn’t need anything. They didn’t know anything.
         “He knows,” the whitecoat said. “Come here, Sam.”
         Sam went.
         The whitecoat put the thing around Sam’s neck, the collar.

         There was someone coming. Sam watched. First the stranger would move like they were supposed to move. Then he’d forget, it looked like. He’d forget how they were supposed to move. He’d lift his head up and look at the things around. Walk faster. Easier. Then he would stop, look over his shoulder, and walk slow again.
         Smart, Sam thought, looking at the pieces of him that were gone from his own arms. Better to walk slow like we’re supposed to.
         The stranger stopped walking, and Sam waited for him to be slow again, but the stranger went into the grass beside a house instead. He bent down into the grass, and picked up something bright. The stranger went onto the porch of the house, and hung the bright thing on a hook that was there, and it made nice sounds and was bright in the sun. The stranger smiled at the bright thing. He looked at the shine and listened to the sounds and smiled.

         “You know what you’re supposed to do,” the whitecoat said again, but there were no smiles in his voice now. He fixed Sam’s collar, even though he’d fixed it a lot already. Sam looked at the whitecoat and he would have said "friend" to him, but he couldn’t.
         The whitecoat looked at Sam’s eyes and looked away.
         “You’re a good one, Sam,” the whitecoat said, and he had wet in his eyes. “Be good.”

         Sam went up to the stranger, and right away the stranger went all slow like they were supposed to.
         "Don’t worry", Sam wanted to say, but he couldn’t.
         He went to the stranger and put his hand up to him.
         The stranger looked at Sam’s hand, he looked at Sam’s eyes. There were smiles in the stranger’s eyes.
         The stranger made sounds, and sounds, and then he said “hello.” Sam was surprised.
         He shook Sam’s hand.
         Sam was very glad to meet him.

         “You know what you’re supposed to do,” the whitecoat said again. Before they let him go, he said it.
         Sam knew what he was supposed to do.

         Sam knew what he was supposed to do, but it was easy to forget now. Ben
         (Sam wanted to tell Ben his name too and hello, and friend, but he couldn’t)
         made him forget what he was supposed to do.
         No. That wasn’t a true thing to think. Sam still knew what he was supposed to do, but Sam felt…
         Sam felt like a person. An alive person.
         They went into a god-place and looked at the bright that came in through pretty windows with colors, smelling the warm and feeling the quiet.
         The went into the houses to look at the pictures on the walls, pictures of alive people that looked so happy.
         They got glass things and caught the shining flies at night, and Ben had to teach Sam to be easy, so their light wouldn’t die in his hands.
         Sam was happy. He was very glad to meet Ben.

         Sam was sitting on the porch of a house with a little dog. Ben had found a bag of stuff that the dog liked to eat, and they fed the dog. It was okay for the dog to eat because it was alive. Sam liked to rub the soft on the dog’s head.

         There were seven of them. Sam saw them, and he remembered what he was supposed to do.
         He got up from the porch of the house and went towards them, but the little dog wanted to come too. “Stay!” Sam wanted to say, but he couldn’t.
         They saw him.
         Sam looked at the little dog, and then at the bad ones. He could take the little dog away, but then the bad ones would chase him.
         (more pieces gone from me)
         Or he could do what he was supposed to do.
         Sam walked away from the porch of the house, slow like he was supposed to, and the dog was by his feet.
         They saw the dog. One of them bent down, and the dog went to him. “No!” Sam wanted to say, but he couldn’t.
         He couldn’t.
         He looked away.
         He did what he was supposed to do.
         Seven was a lot, but not too many. They followed Sam away from the City.

         Ben had a cup with the hard things in it that the little dog liked to eat, but the dog was gone.
         Ben looked around, but there was no dog. He looked at Sam.
         Sam couldn’t look at Ben’s sad eyes.
         “I’m sorry,” Sam wanted to say, but he couldn’t.

         Sam walked awhile by himself, feeling bad in his head. He wasn’t a bad one, was he?
         He wasn’t a bad one. He didn’t eat the alive people, even though he was hungry. He told the greencoats when there were too many coming.
         “You’re a good one,” he remembered the whitecoat saying to him.
         But he let the bad ones take the little dog, and that made Ben sad.
         Sam was a bad friend.

         They were coming. A lot of them. Too many of them. Sam saw that right away, but he still tried to do what he was supposed to do. He tried, but there were too many.
         Sam went away from them, and found an empty street so he could be fast. He had to tell them there were too many.
         There was a noise behind him, and Sam turned around, scared
         (pieces gone more pieces gone from me)
         but it wasn’t a bad one.
         It was Ben.
         “Go back,” Sam wanted to say, but he couldn’t. He pointed back where he had come from.
         Ben looked back that way, and looked at Sam. His face was a question.
         Sam pointed, making noises because he was needing Ben to go back and not follow him, but Ben kept coming.
         Sam went to Ben and pushed him hard. Ben fell down on the street. Sam pointed back where he had come from, and turned away from Ben. He walked away from him, fast. He knew what he was supposed to do. He had to tell them there were too many.
         He looked back when he was far enough away, and Ben was still sitting on the street, watching him. He was far away, but Sam could still see the sad on his face.
         “I’m not a bad friend,” Sam would’ve told him, but he couldn’t.

         “Thank you, Sam,” the greencoat said. “You’re a good one. Go on back--”
         The greencoat stopped talking and looked up fast.
         They can’t be here yet, Sam thought, confused, and looked.
         It was Ben.
         The greencoat lifted up his bad gun.
         “NO!” Sam tried to yell, but only some noises came out of his mouth. He moved in front of the greencoat, but the greencoat pushed him away.
         The bad gun made a loud noise, and Ben fell down.
         “Go on back to where you’re supposed to be, Sam,” the greencoat said. “Thank you.”

         Sam walked like he was supposed to. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down. He was slow like he was supposed to be, and he didn’t have to pretend. His head was full--full--of bad. Bad feelings were all through his head.
         He didn’t feel like an alive person at all.

         Bad ones came. Sam watched them, and wished that he was a bad one. All they cared about was the hunger. They didn’t know about friends and little dogs and bright things and nice sounds. They didn’t know. They didn’t care. They didn’t feel.
         All Sam felt now was bad, since Ben was gone.
         His friend.
         Sam watched the bad ones.
         “You know what you’re supposed to do,” the whitecoat said in Sam’s head.
         Sam made his face like the bad ones’ looked when they saw something they wanted. He reached up with his hands and did things to the collar until it came off and fell on the street.
         Sam followed the bad ones towards the City.
         “I’m sorry,” he wanted to say, but he couldn’t.