Along the way, after beheading some thistle, Shane says, “Hey, I looked up that dog of yours.”

“What, he got a criminal record or something? Maybe win a spelling bee?”

Whitey pants as he walks.

“No,” Shane says, rolling his eyes. “I mean the breed of dog. The Dogo Argentino.”

“What about it?”

“It’s just funny that everyone wants to use him as a fighting dog is all.”

“Okay, you’re making me pull teeth here—just spit it out.”

“They’re not very good at it. See, they mixed a whole bunch of breeds in there—Great Dane, boxer, bull terrier—but also an extinct breed thought to be the world’s best fighting dog, the Cordoba Fighting Dog. The Cordoba was so aggressive toward other dogs, if given a choice the males would choose fighting instead of mating every time.”

“Fightin’ instead of fornicatin’. Okay. I don’t see the disconnect here, dude.”

“With the Dogo, though, they bred the Cordoba traits out. The Dogo’s a pack hunter, not a dogfighter—so dogs that exhibited any aggression toward other dogs didn’t get to breed. Couldn’t have the dogs, like, tearing each other apart on a boar hunt. They needed them to work together and be loyal toward their people.”

Whitey looks up, drooling. As if he knows they’re talking about him.

Shane continues: “But still the dogfighters think that the ghost of this legendary Cordoba breed is still in there. So they try to tease it out—or do worse. But it’s a futile effort.”

“So, he’s just not a good fighter.”

“Not unless something is threatening his pack. I guess you’re his pack.”

She pats him on the rump. “That’s fine by me.” Whitey’s tail wags.

Eventually they get to the little plot of land Guy owns, tucked behind a couple trees and a tangled wall of blackberry bush and rose briar. Soon as she turns the corner, she sees, feels her breath catch.

The windows are broken in the trailer. And in the Scion. The front door of the double-wide is open, hanging off one hinge like a drunk hanging onto a chair rail. The grill’s overturned. The wooden front steps have been smashed. Most of the trailer’s decor is scattered across the lawn—an Amish hex, a wicker basket, a blue checkered tablecloth, all the country bullshit that Guy so unexpectedly adores.

Guy. Guy.

Atlanta breaks into a run, shouting his name. Whitey bounds after.

She knows what she’s going to see before she even sees it.

He’s going to be inside the house. Beaten. Burned with cigarettes. Hanging there from the light fixture.

But what she finds instead is him sitting on a chair next to an overturned table, holding a bag of frozen sweet corn to his head. His lip is split. Blood on his chin. Blood down on his neck.

“Atlanta,” he croaks. “’Sup.”