The dog howled and thrashed but held its advantage. Luke howled, too, and pressed his thumb deeper, all the way in, feeling flecks of ruined cartilage and bone. This did it. The dog whirled away with a piercing cry, giving Luke room to grabble sideways and retrieve his gun. When it attacked again, he was ready. He threw his left arm up to shield his face. The shepherd clamped onto it at the same moment that Luke locked the revolver’s barrel to its throat.

“Die, you Commie bastard,” Luke hissed, and pulled the trigger.

The report was blanketed but still loud. The shepherd staggered sideways, blinking its eyes confusedly. Blood darkened the golden brown fur on its throat and dripped between its paws. It wheezed and whined, then—remarkably—came at Luke again. It managed several erratic steps before its front legs folded and it slumped to the dirt. Luke watched the animal try to get back up. It pawed at the ground and its hindquarters shimmied, then it flopped onto its side, tongue lolling.

All this happened in a matter of seconds, maybe twenty, certainly no more than thirty—time enough for Ramón to react to the gunshots, make his way to the other dog’s cage, and begin to work the bolt loose. Time enough, also, for Kitty to have plucked a dented hubcap from the crateful of junk she’d been hunkered next to, then sneak up behind Ramón and ring it off the back of his skull.

Ramón stumbled forward, dropped to one knee. He touched his head, as if he couldn’t work out what had hit him, then turned to look at Kitty as she drew her hand back for another shot.

“Ay de mí,” he mumbled.

“That’s right, motherfucker,” Kitty said, and knocked him clean out.

I fucked your wife and killed her and my dogs drank her blood.

Luke had one round remaining in the cylinder but one round was all he needed. He glanced at the German shepherd—still alive, but panting in tight bursts—then got to his feet. This proved more challenging than he’d anticipated. He teetered and reeled, taking numerous head-clearing breaths before achieving something close to verticality. Blood trickled from his busted lip and from the puncture wounds the dog had put in his left forearm. He assessed the damage—could have been worse, much worse—and, still reeling, made his way over to Kitty.

“Luke,” she said as he approached. The wound on her forehead had reopened, spilling a rill of blood onto the bridge of her nose. There was bruising on her face and her T-shirt was dark with dirt. “Jesus, Luke . . . Jesus Christ.”

“You okay?” His voice was a dim crackle.

“I think so.”

She didn’t look okay, though. More fuel for the nightmare fire, no doubt. More sessions with the shrink.

“You?” she asked.