Chapter 3
Havoc
Buddy comes back at six in the morning.
I know it’s him because:
As I take a drink of my coffee, I hear something scratching at the door like it’s trying to file a noise complaint against the building.
When I open it, a muddy mutt barrels into my legs like he pays rent.
And Wolf’s voice comes down the hall, “Your dog is back.”
“He is not my dog,” I say automatically.
Buddy drops a slobbery tennis ball on my foot and looks up at me like I’ve disappointed him personally.
Behind him, headlights cut across the lot.
I look up.
There’s a truck idling near the front of the Tavern.
And standing beside it is the kid.
Dylan.
And behind him…
His mom.
She looks tired in a way you don’t fix with sleep.
Hair in a messy bun. Hoodie over jeans and a tee-shirt. That kind of tired that lives in the shoulders and the eyes.
She’s holding her arms like she’s cold, even though it isn’t.
Dylan steps forward. “He ran again. I’m really sorry.”
Buddy chooses that moment to wag his tail like he’s proud of himself.
“I know,” I mutter.
The woman walks up, stopping a careful distance away.