Sighing, Margaret goes to investigate the commotion. She drapes herself over the second-floor banister just in time to see Trouble come tearing around the corner with a shoe dangling from his mouth by the laces. He drops into a play bow with the enthusiasm of a dog five years younger. A moment later, Wes skids across the floor with a wicked gleam in his eye. “Caught you, you bastard. Give it up.” Trouble growls, his tail wagging with anticipation.
