Nobody had a problem. The trainer went over some other stuff, like from a script, how the Rover’s Redemption agency was truly grateful for their time and effort, and how if they let them, the dogs might just teach them something about themselves in the process, but Mason was kind of tuning the whole spiel out; he peered back into the crate at the pitiful creature within and wondered what in the hell this dog was supposed to teach him; it couldn’t even come out and say hi.

Wouldn’t last an hour on the yard, he thought. These hard boys would mess you straight up.

Beside Mason, Bridges Colson’s dog—a big, dumb golden retriever—was all over him, a real sight to behold; the meanest guy in the room, and he was giggling like a child as his dog gave him the most slobbery face wash Mason had ever seen.

Meanwhile, the little black-and-white runt at the back of the crate stared out at him, with big brown eyes that looked away fast when she caught him looking back. Must have weighed thirty pounds, tops.

The name on her crate said LUCY.

“Bit of a fixer-upper, that one,” a voice said beside him, and Mason looked up to find Linda Petrie standing there, didn’t even realize she’d finished her lecture. “Come out of a dogfighting sting down in Muskegon, about thirty dogs on the property, most of them too far gone to be saved.”

Mason looked at her. “They killed them?”

“Yup. Either too mean already, or too tore up by the mean ones. By the time we heard about it, they’d destroyed all but six.” She looked off into the middle distance a moment. Then she shook her head clear. “So you’re going to have to work a little harder with her, is what I’m telling you.”

“Why’d they even save her?” Mason asked. “She looks damn scared.”

“She’s scared, sure, she’s been on the bum end of the stick every day of her young life. But we’re going to show her she’s got better days ahead, right?” The trainer hunched down beside Mason, reached into the crate with both hands. “Lucy,” she said, her voice transformed to pure sweetness. “Come on out, girl.”

This was the closest to Mason a woman had been in fourteen years. He could smell the soap she used, feel the other prisoners staring, knew the guards were somewhere nearby, tensed up in case he should decide to do anything foolish. Knew the other guys would give it to him if he didn’t try a move. But somehow Linda Petrie had coaxed Lucy out of the crate, the poor dog hunched over and folded in on herself like a dang paper clip, long spindly legs shivering, eyes darting everywhere.