I threw the brick at the window as hard as I could. Much to my surprise, it bounced off the glass and shot at me like a rectangular brown rocket. Before I could dodge the projectile, it slammed into my knee so violently I feared I may be crippled for life.

In the brick-filled bed of an unknown man’s pickup truck, I stumbled to keep my footing. I glanced at my throbbing knee. Blood trickled down my leg. Fueled by equal parts anger and compassion, I grabbed another brick from the selection piled at my feet.

I had to act quickly. At least one life was at stake. I raised my hand and took aim at the truck’s back window.

“Abby!” a familiar voice shouted from behind me. “What in the hell are you doing?”

Brick in hand, I glanced over my right shoulder. “Saving a life,” I declared.

George was the owner of the Devil Dog Diner, a restaurant I ate in no less than ten times a week. He was looking at me the same way he did the first time I ordered a cheese sandwich with apple slices on it.

He’d retired from the Marines after serving thirty years. Even though he was in his mid-fifties, he still resembled his barrel-chested brethren that spent their current days traipsing through battlefields in distant countries. His massive biceps and permanent scowl made him an intimidating figure to those who didn’t know him. To me, he was nothing but a big teddy bear.

Unless he was angry. And, from what I could see, he was angry.

“Get down from there before someone starts filming this,” he said, glancing over each shoulder as he spoke. “The last thing you need is to be on the six o’ clock news with a brick in your hand and blood gushing out of your leg.”

I acted as though I didn’t hear him. Using the brick, I gestured toward the sidewalk. “Watch out,” I warned. “Glass is going to go everywhere.”

I hurled the brick with every ounce of energy I could harness. I watched in horror as the event played before my eyes like a slow-motion scene from a low-budget black comedy movie.

The brick hit the center of the truck’s back window. The glass flexed but didn’t break. The brick changed directions, seeming to gain speed as it did so. Then, it plowed into the shin of my good leg.

I stumbled backward, almost toppling over the tailgate and into the street. “Son-of-a-bitch,” I shrieked, reaching for what was left of my mangled shin. “That hurt like hell.”

After steadying myself against the edge of the truck’s bed, I glanced at George and tried not to burst into tears.

“You know how I hate repeating myself, but I’ll ask again.” He opened the truck’s tailgate. “What in the hell are you doing?”

He was frustrated with me. I could clearly see – and hear – it. I swallowed heavily, and then took a deep breath.

“There’s a puppy locked inside he was bouncing around and looking out the window when I came in for lunch when I came out I noticed the truck was still here the windows are rolled up tight he’s on the floor and looks like he’s dying I need to save him,” I said in one breathless sentence.

He extended his arms toward me. “Let’s get you out of there.”

“He’s going to die,” I pleaded, my voice cracking from emotion. “I need to get him out of there.”

He hopped into the back of the truck with ease and then lifted me from my feet. After lowering me gently onto the street he gestured toward his restaurant. “Go stand on the sidewalk.”

Before I hobbled to the edge of the curb, I heard the glass shatter. While the shrill sound of the truck’s alarm filled the air, George disappeared through the broken window and into the cab of the truck. I limped to the passenger door and pulled against the handle frantically. After three or four yanks, the door lock clicked.

The door flew open.

The brown and white bull dog puppy George cradled in his arms looked to be exhausted. He was alive, and that was all that mattered.

“Thank God he’s not dead,” I said.

“Hey, shithead!” someone shouted. “What the fuck are you doing in my truck?”

George handed me the puppy as he climbed out of the truck’s cab. With the shivering pup held tightly in my arms, I turned toward the angry voice.

A lanky young man stood between us and the restaurant. He was dressed in khaki work pants, canvas boots, and a black sweat-stained tee shirt. He raked his sun-bleached hair from his face and shot me a sunken-eyed glare. “Gimme my dog.”

I had all the patience in the world unless stupid people were involved. He’d proven his stupidity when he parked the truck beneath San Diego’s summer sun and rolled up the windows.

“Go to hell,” I snarled. “You locked this dog in that truck with the windows up and left him there for two hours, you dumb jerk. He’s not yours any longer. You’re too stupid to take care of an animal.”

After my tirade, his cheeks went red with anger. “Gimme the dog.”

“F-you,” I hissed.

I wouldn’t give him the dog if he held a gun to my head. While I made plans to knee him in the balls and make a run for it, George stepped between us.

“If you take one step in our direction, I’ll pull off your arms and beat you with the bloody stubs,” George growled, puffing his massive chest as he spoke. “You’ve got two options. Hop in your truck and leave or get those skinny little arms of yours pulled off. I’ll let you pick which one.”

The man studied George, but not for long. Upon realizing it was a fight he simply couldn’t win, his shoulders slumped.

“That dog’s a dipshit anyway,” he muttered.

He stepped into the street and stomped toward his truck. As we walked past, George eyed the man over his shoulder. The thought of such a foolish person having control of an animal’s welfare had my blood boiling. I followed George toward the diner, glaring at the animal abuser the entire way.

As he got in his truck, he gave his parting comment under his breath.

“Asshole,” he murmured.

I flipped him the middle finger over my left shoulder while clutching the pup to my chest.

George glanced at the puppy and then at me. He brushed his palm along the edge of his freshly buzzed scalp and shook his head lightly before looking away.

“What?” I asked.

“You throw bricks like a girl.”

“Learn to throw a brick like a Boss,” I said with a laugh. “I’ll add that to my list.”

“The ever-growing list,” he said, flashing a slight smile.

“I’ll check one off today I never thought I’d get to,” I said.

“Which one is that?”

“Saving a life,” I said. “That only leaves six.”

“What are you going to do when you reach the end?” he asked.

It was a good question. At one point in time, my to-do list had over two hundred items on it. Somehow, I’d managed to accomplish all but six. Out of what remained, five would require nothing more than a little ingenuity and a sprinkle of effort on my part.

The sixth?

It was highly unlikely I’d ever achieve it.

“After the last one?” I cradled the pup in my arms. “You’ll probably never see me again.”

“What?” he gasped. “Why’s that?”

“Because,” I said. “I want to let that one consume me.”