The Death of Argos Nicholas Pierce (bio) 1. A few key seconds haven't yet come back,if they ever were recorded. Who can saywhy the dogs didn't, finally, attack, much less what would've happened if they did?On foot, defenseless, we were easy preyto start with—then my cousin and I slid into a ditch, scrambling to get away.The footage skips ahead when I replay this moment, picking back up with his legalready broken and the dogs at bay—or nowhere to be seen, at least. Less vague is what came afterward: the brief but nonetoo-gentle ambulance ride, the X-rayrevealing that the break was a clean one. 2. The incident put me in mind of S.,whom I'd been trying not to think aboutfor a few months, not wanting to address how cruel I'd been when I abruptly stoppedtexting and calling her back; stopped withoutso much as an excuse, letting her opt [End Page 406] both of us out. Of course, our falling outwasn't what I reflected on en route to the hospital. Rather, it was her ownencounter with a dog, which left no doubta deeper scar than the two running down her chin, down from the edges of her smile.She told me that she didn't run or shout;was, when the pit bull lunged, still in denial. 3. Still in shock, sleep all but impossible,I read the journal from my trip to Greeceafter returning from the hospital; read long into the night, about the nightwhen, meeting for a drink, we found releasefrom loneliness; about how S., despite knowing me all of an hour, felt at easeenough to share how many surgeries she'd had to have in the last year, her facestill not quite hers; about the binding leasethat forced her to recover in the place next door to where the pit bull went on living;about its owner, who refused her pleasto see the dog put down; about surviving. 4. May 28th—Watching from the top deckas Paros shrinks on the horizon, then,in an instant, vanishes; as each new speck [End Page 407] becomes an island, looms, recedes from view.On my way back to Athens, once againon my own, though we plan to rendezvous, S. and I, just as soon as she gets in.It's strange how quickly things can happen when abroad, that we could meet and fall in love(is there a faster-acting medicine?)on the same day; that I, at this remove, perhaps because of it, could know we had.Stranger still, that the scarring on her chinshould be what drew me to her, though I'm glad 5. it did. We met on a bus taking herto Naousa (rhymes with "wowza"), where I'd beenthe day before, and taking me, as per my host's advice, to drafty Golden Beach.We chatted till she disembarked, withinthose few short minutes managing to reach the same conclusion. With this very pen,on a scrap of paper torn from this Moleskin, she jotted down her number. Pausing here,I flipped to the back pocket, where the 10digits had lived for almost half a year; though I had no intention, not that night,of calling her, no clue how I'd beginto explain myself. "I'm sorry" sounded trite. [End Page 408] 6. Memories of the trip came flooding back:I rendezvoused with S. in Nafplioafter the ferry ride, first losing track of time, then of myself, as I exploredher body with my own, getting to knoweach corner more each night, what she adored and didn't, taking things both fast and slow.I learned, as well, where she was born (Bordeaux) and worked (at a high school in Athens), thatshe taught biology and had done soin Cairo during the youth coup d'état— but not her age. I never learned her age,which was, since she had both an olive glowand graying hair, impossible to gauge. 7. June 3rd—This...