“Nice dog.”
Barrow looked up. Dog didn’t.
“Don’t often see one that big.” Blatant greed showed despite mirrored shades.
Barrow nodded. “Had him since he were a whelp. Last litter of the damned, so I’m told.”
“You mean dam.” The stranger feigned politeness.
Barrow wasn’t much for being corrected, but she shrugged. “As you say.”
Dog pretended to sleep.
“Must be hard to feed it.” Next, he’d propose purchase or theft. They always did.
Dog opened his red eyes and stretched out. His canine grin was disarming.
The stranger’s remaining arm flailed impotently, slowed, stopped.
“Not difficult at all, really.”
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