Chapter 3: He Is Jose

"Jose."

"My good brother, you've finally returned to me."

A man's low, intermittent whisper drifted from the corner of the street.

Tonight, Seattle was shrouded in fog, the moon hidden behind clouds, casting the already dilapidated street into deeper darkness and confinement. The air reeked of dampness, rotting meat, and the metallic stench of blood—so foul it made one want to vomit.

Tents lined the roadside, and many homeless men, clad in filthy cotton coats, huddled against walls, wrapped tightly in their garments, caps pulled low, like silent wax figures.

Beyond them, from within the tents, rustling, sobbing, scratching nails, and unintelligible moans blended into the street's dominant melody.

Roger, hooded, hands in his pockets, carefully stepped over the scattered trash, heading toward the only corner still faintly lit.

He had come here during the day, trading a small hot dog to a homeless man for the information he needed.

According to him, the man who spoke to the dog was named Juan, an illegal immigrant who had crossed the border.

He lived in a shack at the street corner and was extremely reclusive.

Because Juan whispered softly to his stray dog every night, the other homeless men stared at him with strange eyes and dared not approach him—no one knew anything more about him.

Recalling this information, Roger's steps drew closer.

In the distance, a smoldering fire pit could be seen beneath the shack; the remaining branches inside occasionally crackled with sharp snaps, like the desperate cries of a drowning man.

As he neared, the dim light revealed a man and a dog huddled together, the strange whispering emanating from the man's mouth.

"Jose, don't worry—I'll protect you this time."

"Jose, I'll heal your leg and make you healthy again."

"Jose, why are you so listless? Are you hungry? Here, eat this piece of meat—it's freshly cut, fresh."

"Jose, why are you looking at me like that? Didn't you eat enough? Are you blaming me?"

"Jose, I know you resent me, but I have no money for medicine, not even enough for stimulants. If I'd known, we should've stayed in Colombia—shot dead would've been better than this damn pneumonia."

"Jose, I'm sorry to you."

Hearing this, Roger's hair stood on end, cold sweat soaking his back.

Meat?

Where did the meat come from?

Homeless relief meals didn't include freshly cut, fresh meat!

Roger swallowed hard, hesitating to proceed—but then he thought of the $50 reward, and rubbed his stomach, empty for days. In the end, he decided to investigate further.

Just as he drew near Juan, the man—of average build, high cheekbones, and brown skin—suddenly lifted his head and glared at him with a vicious stare.

At the same time, the one-legged pit bull in his arms barked fiercely at Roger.

"Woof! Woof!"

"Hey, buddy, don't be tense—I mean no harm," Roger forced down his unease, raising his empty hands to show he carried no weapon.

But Juan and the dog didn't relax at all.

The man placed his hand on the dagger stuck into the ground—and Roger then noticed a plump rat carcass pinned beneath it.

Phew, so the fresh meat was rat.

Seeing this, Roger smiled and pulled a sealed German sausage from his front pocket.

"Look at this, buddy—want some?"

Seeing the sausage, Juan's eyes flickered slightly, but he still demanded in a questioning tone: "Who are you?"

"Me?" Roger slowly crouched down along the opposite wall.

He dared not sit fully, fearing Juan might snap and he wouldn't be able to escape in time.

"I'm Roger. A unlucky guy." He scoffed: "Can you believe it? Just two months ago, I lost my grocery store and my dog—and was forced to become homeless. Guess why."

Before Juan could answer, Roger continued: "The reason? A bunch of homeless men robbed everything from my store—the goods, the cash. Ha."

He gave a bitter laugh, then gritted his teeth:

"But robbery was bad enough—they stole my Bondi! That dog had been with me since childhood! But when I found it, it was boiling in a pot."

"Fuck! Those bastards—I want to peel their skins off!"

Hearing this, Juan's brown eyes softened with sympathy, and even his pit bull fell silent.

"So you know what? These past two months, I've been numb—even thought about ending it all."

Roger sighed deeply, then looked at the pit bull: "But when I saw it by accident, I thought I saw Bondi."

"It's mine," Juan's gaze hardened again.

"No no no," Roger quickly waved his hands: "I know Bondi's gone forever—I just want to make up for it, as much as I can."

As he spoke, he tore open the sausage packaging; its rich aroma instantly filled the shack, making the pit bull's nose twitch.

Roger tossed it to Juan: "Feed him. Buddy, this is all I can do."

Juan didn't want to accept—but when he saw the pit bull leaning forward, drooling, he couldn't help but stroke its head: "Don't rush, Jose—here you go."

He pulled the dagger from the ground, sliced the sausage in half, tossed one half to the pit bull, and raised the other as if to throw it to Roger.

Roger jumped back, shaking his head frantically: "You give it all to him—I'm not hungry."

"Thank you," Juan nodded, tossing the entire sausage to the pit bull.

Watching the dog devour it greedily, the gaunt man smiled for the first time.

"Its name is Jose?" Roger ventured.

Juan set down the dagger: "Yes."

"Where did it come from?"

"Like me, it came from Ecuador, crossing the line."

"That must've been hard—so many things happened along the way."

"We didn't know each other at first, but we grew close," Juan's gaze drifted, lost in memory: "We fought off robbers together, survived gunfires—we crawled out of piles of corpses, barely making it here."

Roger raised his eyebrows in surprise, feeling that Juan didn't seem to be talking about a dog.

"Then what happened after?"

"After that, Jose got pneumonia." The light in Juan's eyes slowly faded. "He coughed terribly, but there was no medicine that could save him."

"Damn pneumonia, so you named it Jose?" Roger looked at the pit bull; he had actually already figured out the truth of the matter, he just wanted to confirm it.

But Juan said in a tone of absolute certainty:

"He is Jose."

"I mean the Jose who walked the route with you."

"That's right, he is that Jose." A cold glint flashed in Juan's eyes.

Roger decisively shut his mouth.

Then, Juan's hand slowly moved through the pit bull's short, coarse neck fur, with a patience like some kind of ritual. His voice was gentle and low, as if comforting a wounded child.

"Jose, are you full?"

The pit bull licked the empty plastic bag, but its gaze never left the rat's corpse on the ground. Hearing its master's inquiry, it let out a muffled sound from its throat, sounding neither like satisfaction nor like hunger.

"Jose, come, drink some water, so you can get better faster."

Roger lowered his eyes, swallowed, and felt a chill run down his back.

But just then, he suddenly saw the dead rat by Jose's feet twitch.

Damn!

It really did twitch!

Not from being touched, nor from being blown by the wind.

Its belly swelled slightly, and immediately a small section of rice-white slowly poked out from the torn skin and flesh.

Roger's breath stalled for a moment.

Damn!

This rat's corpse had been rotting for at least two days!

Not fresh at all!

Then where exactly was the fresh meat Juan spoke of?

Roger's gaze drifted uncontrollably, until he saw the scattered but connected dark marks on the ground, slowly moving upward.

Juan's trouser cuffs clung damply to his calves, pitted and uneven, and under the bonfire, irregular dark outlines were revealed.

Roger jerked his gaze away.

Fuck!

This guy couldn't really be crazy, could he!

Thinking of this, he hurriedly got up.

"Are you leaving?" Juan asked faintly behind him.

"Uh, yes, I should go back to sleep." Roger forced a smile.

"Alright, nice to meet you, you can come visit Jose more often in the future."

Roger smiled on the surface, but inwardly he already wished he could turn tail and run.

"I will. Good night, uh, goodbye."

After saying goodbye, he hurriedly left this homeless encampment.

"Crackle, pop."

The branches in the fire basin burned out, gradually losing their light.

Juan affectionately wrapped his arm around the pit bull's neck and said softly: "Jose, Roger is a good person, don't bite him in the future, understand?"

"Woof." The pit bull let out a low growl, seemingly responding to the man's words.