As with most fights inside prison walls, it started over something trivial. Something stupid. In this case, it was a chew toy.

Less than a week left to go in the program, before the dogs would graduate out of the Chippewa pen and move on to a month or two with real trainers on the outside, men and women who would work with Linda Petrie to polish the dogs into genuine companion animals. In a few months, all things going well, Lucy would have a new home, a forever home, with someone who needed her, who deserved her a lot more than Mason did.

It wasn’t like it didn’t hurt, just a little bit, knowing the dog was leaving, knowing he’d never see her again. She’d come a long way in the months they’d worked together; she wasn’t scared of her food bowl anymore, for one thing, had put on some healthy weight. She wagged her tail when he looked her way, covered him in dog-slobber kisses when he came to get her from her crate in the morning. She sat, she fetched, she heeled when they walked around the yard together. They were working on rolling over; they’d mastered high fives. The dog had found her confidence; she looked happy. She was going to be a good dog for somebody, Mason knew. But that didn’t make it hurt any less, thinking about saying goodbye.

Heck, though, in six months or so he’d be out of this prison himself. He could find his own dog, train her like he’d trained Lucy. He figured he’d picked up a few tricks, and though it wouldn’t be the same bond as he’d built with this dog, it would have to do.

Except he very nearly messed up his chances of getting out, and Lucy’s, over one stupid rubber tire toy.

The tire, by rights, belonged to no one. It had come in the canvas bag of rope toys and tennis balls and stuffed animals that Linda Petrie brought with her each day, that she dumped in the middle of the yard for the dogs to play with when they weren’t learning how to behave themselves. The tire belonged to the group; it was fair game for anyone. But in practical terms, that tire belonged to Marques Alvarado and Meatball.

Alvarado was a banger from somewhere in Detroit. He’d taken ten years on a manslaughter conviction and, like the rest of the men in the program, was due for release sometime within the next year. Alvarado palled around with a guy named Porter Trammel, who was serving five to seven for boosting cars down in Flint. Trammel’s dog, Reggie, was a German shepherd from the slums. And Meatball was a big, beefy rottweiler.