FFJ - 27 - Mr. Mr.

“I think my dog has been replaced.” Elijah said, eyes on the ceiling. He’d always struggled to meet people’s gaze. It made his brain lag, too much to focus on. The breakroom’s ceiling was a good one. Flecked white square drop panels. Spiderweb up in the corner beyond the reach of the janitor. He tried to bring his darting eyes down to look Caroline in the face, show that he was serious. 

“What?” She asked. A fair response, he thought. She had a half-finished cold tuna sandwich, one from those little flavored packs. It looked dry, like the bread. Big pieces of grain in it, the bread. She took a sip from one of those too-big water jugs. An athletic type. She kept track of her hydration, Elijah admired that in people. Not hydration, but to have the dedication necessary to track stuff like that. 

“My dog. Mr. Mr., I think he’s been replaced.” He met her eyes this time, held the gaze steady despite the growing discomfort pinballing in his mind. She broke it first, looking down at her unfortunate sandwich. 

“Replaced how?” A tinge of suspicion, waiting for the punchline that he didn’t have. 

“He’s different, I don’t know. He isn’t the same. I think he got, like, swapped or something.”

“That’s impossible.” Now there was concern, the kind people got when someone said something truly unhinged. Visions of straight jackets and IV drips, but he was serious. He should have waited until after work. Discussing this with his coworker in the slim 15 between call shifts might not have been the best idea. 

“You’ve met Mr. Mr.”

A pause, then a reluctant, “Yes.” 

“So, you’d know if he was different.”

“I mean, I guess. But, Eli, are you okay?” 

“Yes, I’m fine. Listen, I know I sound ridiculous. It’s true, though, there’s something wrong with him.” He met her eyes again, tried to sound sincere. No smile. No laugh.

“Have you called a vet?”

“Well, he’s healthy. The dog in my house is fine, but it isn’t Mr. Mr.”

“Right.”

“I was hoping you’d come look at him.”

“Eli.”

“Will you?”

“I don’t know. It really…have you tried talking to a psychiatrist?”

“I have GAD, not, not, whatever would do this. Trust me. Just come look at him and tell me what you think. He’s different, and I never invite people over, and you’ve met him. So, you could tell me if I’m wrong.”

His phone vibrated. It was time to get back to work. 

“After work, please, just come by, okay? 5 minutes.”

“I’ll come. Fine. But this better not be some big joke.”

“It’s not.”

“Okay, I’ll see you in a bit.”