She rested one hand on the massive head of the dog beside her. “I know.” She finally nodded, then turned on her heels and headed back into the trailer without a word.

Nick looked at the dog—it was still sitting outside his door, staring at him without expression. He wondered what the dog was thinking; he wondered how disciplined he really was. Alena had given him the “sit” command, but Alena was no longer there—was the command still in effect? Would the dog remain in its sitting position until instructed to do otherwise or was it a free agent now—free to make its own decisions? He looked into the dog’s eyes. Insects have no expressions, he thought— no moods or dispositions to tell you what they plan to do next. But this was a much larger animal with a more highly developed brain; surely he should be able to look into the dog’s eyes and tell something.

He looked again, and he thought he saw the dog smile.

The trailer door opened again with a bang. “Are you coming in or not?”

Before Nick could open his mouth the door swung shut again. He looked at the dog, took a deep breath, and slowly opened his door.

The dog made no movement toward him. Nick briefly considered allowing the dog to sniff the back of his hand but decided not to press his luck; he climbed out of the car and moved quickly into the trailer.

When he stepped through the door he found himself facing a wall that ran the length of the trailer; the double-wide was apparently made of two separate units joined in the middle, giving the interior a long, tunnel-like appearance. He looked to his right and saw a kitchen and a narrow breakfast nook tucked against the far wall; he turned to the left and found a simple living room occupied by an old sofa sectional, a coffee table, and crowded bookshelves lining the interior wall. At the end of the room was a doorway—probably to the bedroom and bath, Nick thought.

Alena was nowhere in sight, but there was a figure seated on the sofa looking back at Nick: Gunner Wendorf.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Nick said.

“I suppose not,” Gunner replied.

Nick paused. “Come here often?”

“From time to time.”

Nick was hoping for a little more in the way of explanation, but Gunner offered nothing else. Just then Alena entered through the doorway with a white hand towel and threw it at Nick; it landed across his left shoulder like a sash. Alena moved to the sofa and stood beside Gunner with her fists on her hips, glaring at Nick with one wary eye.

“Thank you,” Nick said. He used the towel to blot his face and neck and dry his hair. Alena waited until he was finished, then held out a plastic bag with both hands.