The kid flipped him a bloody middle finger as he staggered away. Conor waited until the teen had disappeared from the alley. He went in the back door and detoured to the supply closet for the first-aid kit. He should call the cops and fill out a report. But the kid was long gone, and Conor hated paperwork. Besides, there was always the slim possibility this young teen would actually learn a lesson. The pope was tweeting. Anything could happen.

Back upstairs, he used an antiseptic wipe on the tiny nick on his cheekbone. Damn. That had been close. He settled on the floor next to the dog. “Don’t bite me, OK?”

The dog trembled and looked away as he dried her coat and cleaned the dirt from her wounds.

“I think that’s as good as it’s going to get.”

Sensing the worst was over, the dog stretched out on her belly, nose resting on her outstretched paws. She blinked up at him with dark, liquid eyes. Conor packed up his first-aid supplies and washed his hands. “You won’t destroy the place, will you?”

Not that there was much to destroy. Conor lived a spartan life. He’d never been one to accumulate stuff. His younger brother, Danny, had moved out last spring, leaving the place emptier than ever. But the dog seemed content.

“Are you hungry?” A few slices of cheese didn’t seem like enough for a dog of her size. He pulled a carton of eggs out of the fridge and scrambled a half dozen. While they cooled, he checked the dog’s cuts. “Better. Most of them aren’t bleeding anymore.”

He served up dinner. The dog shuffled over, sniffed, and nibbled at the food while keeping one skittish eye fixed on Conor. Maybe she’d eat when she relaxed.

“Maybe I should block you in here for the night.” Not that he thought the dog would hurt him. In general, pit bulls didn’t deserve the bad reputation they’d acquired, and this one acted downright submissive. No doubt she’d been on the losing end of whatever fight she’d been forced into. But the dog probably had fleas.

“OK, then I’m going to bed. You stay here in the kitchen.” He blocked the doorway with a low bookcase. “Don’t give me that face. You’re fed, and you have a roof over your head. You should be happy.”