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Jameson and I were both eight when he got into a car wreck with his family and he broke both of his arms. His parents got a few bad cuts, but nothing more serious.

I remember his red casts and how proud he was of them, how I (as his best friend) was the first to sign them both when he'd gotten fixed up at the hospital after the accident. You couldn't add insult to his injury back then, and soon the husky pup had healed. The casts had come off, and he and I continued life as before: happy, and full of adoration for one another. Or I to him, at least.

His arm pains began when we were fifteen. They were nothing to worry about, he'd said, like the tingles after a limb falls asleep. But they got worse as time went on--blazing agony one minute then complete numbness one minute later. Our teenage years were a blur of me (the wide-eyed, foxhound sidekick) worrying over him as he ached and cried from the pain while we hung out and tried to pretend everything was okay. His parents had worried over him too much, apparently. My undivided attention, however, was just fine. I was alright with that. I liked to take care of him.

Jameson and I were both seventeen when he was diagnosed with peripheral vascular disease, and we were still seventeen when both of his arms had to be amputated. This is when insult was finally added to the injury, and thinking about it always makes me sick.

It turned out the car wreck from when we were eight, and the consequent broken arms, damaged the blood vessels in his limbs and slowly deprived them of blood until they were too far gone to be saved. I felt to blame just as much as his parents, because I knew he was hurting, and if maybe I had said something he would have gotten to the doctor. They would have figured out his arms were still damaged before it was too late, and he wouldn't have had to suffer so much.

As before, I was there when he was wheeled out of recovery, this time strung up to monitors and tubes and cables. There were no red casts to sign, even though I expected them for some reason, like my mind was transported back to when we were kids and I was there for my friend in his first time of need. It was surreal. Or maybe I was in shock; seeing your best friend with his arms chopped off can do that to you. You have an impression of them, after all, a definitive image of them cataloged into your mind of the best times. My image of Jameson had been abruptly cropped, and I almost couldn't get used to it. It's still hard sometimes, and I hate myself for it, but I know it's worse for him. He's worked past the depression and can only tolerate positivity nowadays, so I have to oblige. It's not so hard. His joy for living is contagious.

We bump along and up a narrow dirt road, my 4x4 lurching to the sides every so often and tossing Jameson about the passenger seat. With no arms he can't hold on properly, but he's grasped a method of twisting with the rocking motions and remaining perfectly upright.

"It's like a roller coaster," he says, brown eyes sparkling and mouth wide in a voracious grin. His tail's going fifty against the seat. "When's the loopedy-loop?"

I only take a quick glance and smirk at him before looking at the precarious road again and my droopy ears droop all the more. "No more loopedy-loops in cars for you ever again. Especially not mine."

I catch his black-peppered fur puffing for a moment, but then he's all smiles again. "Fair enough. We almost there?"

We crest a hill and round a curve, the right side of the road plummeting down into a miles-deep valley of forest. Ahead and to the left a parking area opens up. "Yep. As far as driving goes." I pull in and park, my ears perking to Jameson's excitable whining. I have to unbuckle him and let him out, and he's rather impatient. I unbuckle myself, smiling, and get out. "Hold on, hold on."

"The fresh air is amazing," he says as I sit our hiking packs out of the back of my SUV. I'm strapping mine on when he hops up beside me and nuzzles my neck, one of his few methods of showing me affection since he can't give me a hug. I don't mind of course, and I don't even try to hide my blush anymore. "Thank you for doing this with me, Sam," he says, stepping back, ears folded sweetly.

"It makes you happy," I say, my tail wagging. "Besides, like I could say no."

"You could."

I hoist his own pack up and he turns around for me. "But I won't."

He just chuckles.

I buckle the straps around his waist and the modified ones that go around his chest, and he bounces a bit to make sure the weight settles right. Once he's satisfied we head to the trail-head nearby and I let him take the lead. I watch him as he goes, his bushy tail wavering hypnotically, toned legs and behind flexing in all the right ways. Surprisingly, he never falters or trips. I do, even with two arms to keep my balance, but I don't say anything.

The trail descends deep into the Linville Gorge Wilderness. Known as the "Grand Canyon of North Carolina," the area is submerged in hardwood and pine forest, rhododendron and wildflowers, and is situated around the Linville river. The landscape is gorgeous, and after losing myself in the sway of Jameson's hips I find myself lost in the beauty of the woods. After about twenty minutes of not paying attention and stumbling, I run into him.

"Thirsty," he says, panting.

I yank out my water bottle and hold it to his lips. He drinks then I drink.

He grins. "Much obliged."

I stick the bottle back in its pouch. "No problem."

We hear the river before we see the end of the trail, and after ten more minutes we're deposited into the base of the gorge. The trees grow further apart, their fallen limbs scattered all over and whitened by the weather; boulders pop up, culminating into a treacherous looking bank then slipping into white water.

"It's gorgeous," Jameson sighs. He turns to me and dances a jig. "Unbuckle me, please!"

I do, settle our backs against a tree, and then I'm skipping across rocks in pursuit of my friend. The roar of the river rumbles through my body, and Jameson's laughter fills me up until we're both chattering like kids and flinging water at one another (me with my paws, Jameson lithely with his dipped toes). After a while I'm exhausted and sit down on a rock overlooking the water. I don't realize the day has passed until the gorge falls into a violet twilight, and I really didn't realize I've been sitting for so long.

I look about and can't see Jameson anywhere. I call out and get no reply. My fur stands on end instantly and I jump to my feet, calling out his name, running amongst the trees until I am breathless and my heart hammers through my ribs. In an instant the trip becomes a nightmare.

He could've fallen into the river; he could've tripped and hit his head; he could be drowning; he could be dying. I'd made it my responsibility long ago to always be there for him, to be by his side, and now he was missing and it was getting dark and the trees were terrifying and the river could've swallowed him and how would I be able to tell his parents I'd lost him...

I don't realize I'm sobbing and mortified until I round the tree where our packs are and find Jameson trying to open the flap of his with his teeth.

"WHERE THE FUCK WERE YOU!?"

He yelps and falls onto his rump. "Holy shit! Don't sneak up on me like that!"

I stomp over all but snarling, ears erect. His eyes grow wider. "I was calling you! Why didn't you answer!? I thought something had happened!"

He tries to smile, but it breaks into a frown. "I'm fine, Sam, calm down..."

Further words are out of the question, so I just pace and try to ignore the fact that he could've been dead or grievously injured.

It doesn't work.

I jab a finger at him, my scowl tugging down on my eyes. "Don't ever do that again."

He flinches. "Do what? What did I do!?"

My voice breaks as I scream. "You scared me--that's what! I thought I'd lost you!"

He rocks onto his feet and stands, and he sets his toned body as if bracing for something. His ears are back and his tone is accusatory. "Why are you getting angry?"

"Because I care about you, James! Because I don't want anything to happen to you!" I wipe my eyes, my hounds nose twitching pathetically and face red-hot. "Because I love you too much..."

"Don't say that."

I grow cold. "It's true."

He turns away. "I know it's true. But, goddammit," he looks back, tail drooped, "Look at what I've done to you."

I heave in distaste. "What?"

"You've diverted and ruined your whole life because of me!" He spits onto the ground. I see tears. "And it's not fair. I don't deserve all you've done for me, Sam! I don't deserve your love! I've done nothing but drag you down, which is funny," he twists viciously and glares at the stumps of his shoulders, "When you have no hands!"

I'm sobbing again. I can't believe what he's saying. "I haven't diverted my life! I've devoted my life! To you!"

"Stop it," he growls.

"No! I love you. I always have, and that won't change."

He snarls. "I know! And it kills me!" He gawks at me. "There's no life with me, Sam! What are my prospects? I have nothing to offer you!" His chest heaves. "I can't provide for you. I can't get a job! For fucks sake, I can't even eat or drink or take a piss without someone there to pull my dick out for me!"

I reach for him instinctively because it feels like he's slipping. "Jameson..."

"I hate it," he whimpers, agony upon his face. "I can't even hold you, Sam." He then turns toward the trail up the gorge. "You're too good for me."

I stand in the darkening woods then blindly pick up our things and follow after him. We don't speak. The car ride to the hotel room we'd rented is cold and silent. I still help him use the bathroom and eat and shower, not looking him in the eye. After I get cleaned up I lay on my side of the bed we share and stare at the wall. I feel numb.

Jameson stirs in the dark, and the mattress shifts. "Sam?" I don't reply. "Sam, please say something."

"I'm not too good for you," I whisper, afraid to speak louder. "And no matter what, I'm going to be here for you, because I love you." I flip over to face him and find him on his side looking at me. "Because I don't know what I'd do without you. You are my life."

He shakes his head pressed into his pillow. "I'm sorry I hurt you."

I scoot nearer to him. "It's okay. Please, just give me a chance."

His lips curl up a little, eyes still sad. "I...I really do love you, Sam."

I press myself to his warmth and imagine I feel his arms around me. "I really love you, too."

He nuzzles me and we sleep. Whole.