Up in Smoke

Equivalent movie rating of 14A for violence, moderate profanity, and intense themes of animal testing, human trafficking, and slavery.

Jack rounded a corner, but his headlights illuminated the creature in the lane too late to do anything but swerve. Not enough. He nicked the animal with the driver’s side headlight.

Fighting to regain control, he cursed and slammed on the brakes. He pulled over to the side of the highway, fetched a flashlight from the glove box, and got out to see what he’d hit.

Since Ptarmigan nestled into the toes of the foothills and he lived on a small acreage around the base of Mardell Mountain, hitting wildlife on his commute was a constant danger, and one he was usually more wary of. The shattered headlight and dented hood and grill said “small deer,” and he cursed again. This old beast was probably worth less than what it would cost to repair it, and his insurance company would probably just rather write him a cheque for the truck’s value. He turned and shone the light back down the lane toward the inert dark lump in the middle of the highway. It wasn’t big enough to be a deer and the shape was wrong, too round in the middle, too long. Maybe it was a wildcat? He couldn’t remember ever hearing of anyone hitting a cougar on the highway—they were usually too canny—but it was too big to be anything else. Maybe it was a deer after all.

Cautiously, he approached the animal. It wasn’t moving, but every so often, it would make a pitiful clicking sound in its throat. With every step, his eyes got wider and his mouth got dryer. Instead of hooves and fur and ears, it had claws and scales and horned browbones extending back from a small, pointed snout marked by two tiny slits for nostrils. Two leathery wings extended from the creature’s back—and one appeared to be broken.

“Well, I’ll be jiggered.” Jack stared down at what, according to every fantasy tale ever invented, was obviously a dragon—small for a dragon, but he couldn’t think of anything else to call it. It blinked up at him from golden eyes split with a band of black, seeming anything but threatening. It was smaller than he’d thought from a distance, too, no bigger than his German Shepherd. He squatted down beside it and laid a hesitant hand on its shoulder. Its skin was soft and dry like a snake’s. It followed his actions with its eyes, but seemed to be in too much pain to shy away. It seemed calmed by his touch.

“One thing’s for certain,” he muttered, examining the charcoal-coloured hide that blended with the dark asphalt. “You’re not green.”