This memory turned a switch in Kane’s head, and before he knew fully why, he was kneeling in front of Ms. Daisy. She raised her dog eyebrows at him. It was very doglike. Too doglike. Why would someone as ridiculous as Poesy own a normal dog? “Beware of dog,” Kane said. He looked between Ms. Daisy’s sleek, black coat and the door’s lustrous, black finish. The only time he’d seen the door work from this side was when Poesy was returning from walking Ms. Daisy. Otherwise, the whistle had to be used to call it. But whistles didn’t call doors. Whistles called dogs.
