He hadn’t déjà-vued in years. When young it had happened quite frequently. “Oh, that’s a déjà -vu,” someone told him, “it happens to me sometimes.”
He had seen the dog die.
It was a short-muzzled breed, feeding noisily. “He really gets into his food,” laughed Stu.
“Slow him down,” called Roz. Then a nasty rasping, choking. “Heimlich him !” Stu was embracing the animal, squeezing and releasing.
“It’s coming out!” Some grey lumps fell. Roz’s fingers into the narrowed throat. “I can’t get it!” she screamed.
“He can’t breathe, take them out!”
He never told them he had seen it all before.
