“That there dog should of gone and done what Poker told it to,” Tom said. He looked at the dog accusingly, and it growled low in its throat. “Well, you should of,” Tom told it.

They walked far enough that they were at the door to Charlie’s rooming house. “What now?” Tom asked him. “You gonna put that old dog down now and come have a beer with me?”

Charlie shook his head. “Guess I’ll take him inside,” he said. “He’s still hungry. Guess I can give him somethin’.”

Tom looked at the dog, then at Charlie. He put his hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “You are one crazy son-of-a-bitch,” he said. “Knockin’ down Poker Greenwood cause he took after this here old dog.”

He petted the dog roughly on the head, ignoring the growl and the narrowed eyes. “You are one lucky dog,” he told it. “You got yourself a good man here. A good man.”

He patted Charlie once more on the back, then walked away, singing the words to a song he appeared to be making up as he went along. Charlie watched him for a moment, then went inside. He carried the dog up the stairs to his room. Mrs. Ring, hearing him, looked out her door. When she saw the dog, she came out to have a look at it.

“Man was beating it,” Charlie said before she could object. “Hurt him pretty good.”

Mrs. Ring opened her mouth, then shut it again with a snap. She eyed the dog for a moment, then reached out to stroke it. The dog shrank back against Charlie. Then, understanding that Mrs. Ring meant him no harm, he allowed himself to be petted.

“You got some food for it?” Mrs. Ring asked Charlie.

Charlie nodded. “Got some hamburger,” he said.

Mrs. Ring sighed. “Take him on up,” she said. “Poor thing.”

Charlie nodded his thanks and climbed the rest of the stairs. Once in his room, he sat down on the bed with the dog in his lap. It had stopped shaking and was panting softly. Charlie rubbed its ears. “Good boy,” he said. “You’re a good boy.”

Not knowing why, he buried his head in the dog’s fur. It smelled of oil and fish and salt. “You’re a good boy,” Charlie said as tears began to form in his eyes. “A good boy.”

Hudson put the pages down. He had read the passage before, many times in fact. But still it moved him. He just wants something to love, he thought. Someone to love and to love him back.

He yawned. Although it was nearing five—a perfectly reasonable time to get up—he wasn’t quite ready. He put the manuscript and the copied pages to one side. Five minutes, he told himself.