“His name is not Bosco,” she growled, and brushed past Nick in the direction of the witch.

Nick turned and followed her; the last thing he wanted was a confrontation between Marge and the Witch of Endor. Somebody was likely to get mauled—and based on his track record with these two women, it would probably be him.

On the other side of the field the witch watched warily while Bosco came bounding playfully toward her. She held her right hand palm-down above her dog’s head, and the dog sat frozen beneath it. As Bosco approached she turned sideways and stepped between him and her own dog. He tried to go around her and she repeated the maneuver, blocking the dog’s way over and over until it finally gave up and stood motionless, staring up at her in confusion. She pulled the hair back from her face and looked down at the dog, establishing eye contact; she snapped her fingers once and then placed an index finger on the dog’s haunches and gently pushed down.

The dog sat.

She stroked the dog’s head and scratched behind his ears. She roughed up his fur and examined it. She lifted his muzzle and looked into his eyes, then lifted one jowl with her thumb and looked at his teeth and gums.

“You there!” Marge shouted as she charged across the field. “May I ask what you think you’re doing?”

The witch stepped back from the dog and lowered her head again.

“Take it easy, Marge,” Nick said. “She was only trying to—”

“Never touch my dog!” she growled, looking the witch over in disdain. “Do I make myself clear?”

The witch mumbled something under her breath.

“Excuse me? What was that?”

“I said, ‘Your dog is dehydrated.’”

“My dog is in perfect health, thank you very much.”

“Look for yourself. You can tell by his fur.”

She glared at her. “I don’t recognize you—where did you get your training? Do you have your FEMA certification? May I see your credentials, please?”

The witch said nothing.

“Now hold on,” Nick said. “This is no time to start comparing pedigrees.”

“Pedigree? Is that some kind of joke? That thing has no pedigree—it’s nothing but a mongrel. And why would anyone allow this pathetic creature to suffer this way? The humane thing would have been to put it down years ago. I can only hope it won’t be allowed to pollute the bloodlines further. Has she at least been spayed?”

The witch raised her head and peered out with one burning eye. “Have you?”

She snapped her fingers and ran toward the parking lot with the dog on her heels.

“Alena, wait a minute!” Nick called after her—but she didn’t even slow down.

“I plan to confirm each and every one of her supposed ‘findings,’” Marge said, frowning at the field of red flags.