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He had a .45 under the seat of his pickup, but he didn’t want to use it. It wasn’t the dog’s fault, not really. It was hungry and scared and alone, and all it had was its teeth.
“Lewis ain’t here,” said the first man. He had plump cheeks and fair skin, like he’d been raised on milk and cheese. His red T-shirt advertised Miller High Life, which suited him, because he was built like a beer keg. But he walked lightly, almost on his toes, as if approaching a tango partner.
“What if it doesn’t go away?” asked Peter. The shrink gave him the same kind smile. “Then that’s just who you are now,” he said. “If there are limitations, there are also benefits. That’s your life. Learn how to live it. Find something to do. Someone to love. Get on with things.”
If he was in the mountains, up above the tree line, he’d climb out of his bag in his wool socks and his fleece and shiver while he made coffee and watched the sunlight rise up the valley walls, seeing their color shift from black to purple to blue to green. Then he’d load his pack and lace up his boots and set out on the trail again. The movement would warm him for the rest of the day, while the snowcapped peaks kept him company in silent perfection. When you woke on a clifftop in a granite cathedral, it was easy to think you’d chosen that life on purpose.
And the dog was on sentry duty, pacing the sidewalk, trailing a plume of stink so powerful you could practically see it coming off him. A walking gas grenade with four legs and a tail.
