Artie lights another cigarette, inhales deeply, then blows the smoke out of the side of his mouth into the moving air, which catches it, pushing the drift of smoke into the bunk.

Mack sneezes.

“What the…” Artie’s head swivels and dog and man look each other in the eye. “Shit.”

Mack braces himself against the sudden lurch of the truck, shakes from head to tail, and jumps into the passenger seat, where he fixes his eye on Artie, giving him his best I’m-a-good-dog look. This is more like it; now things will improve. A quick glance at the bag of kibble on the floor, just to remind Artie that dinner is late. A soft whine to emphasize the need to go out.

Artie grabs his mute cell phone and scrambles his fingers over its face to find the right buttons to listen to his messages. “Nothin’ but trouble. I need this like a hole in the head. Goddamned bitch. I knew this was a bad idea. Freakin’ dog. Twenty-seven unheard messages!”

Artie keeps up the tongue language and Mack sits confidently in the seat, where Justine’s scent lingers on the cracked plastic. He should have come down sooner; he just didn’t believe that Artie hadn’t known he was there. How can a man not scent a dog lying close by? Now that the man knows he’s here, things must improve. Anytime that Justine has left him, which is rare, the person he’s left with knows about the basics: food, water, toys, go-out. It is inconceivable to him that Artie doesn’t speak enough dog to get those basics attended to. But the man just keeps yakking and flailing the cell around. The truck is picking up speed, and if the dog could see over the hood, he would notice that they are too close to the little car in front of them.

The truck banks left, then right as Artie drops the phone and pays attention to the road. He’s still grumbling, tossing sideways glances at Mack every now and then. He rubs his sandpaper chin with rough hands, making a whiskery sound. Mack sits in the passenger seat, never taking his eyes off of Artie. Artie hasn’t used any tongue language to let Mack know where Justine is. He’s only used the more subtle but highly legible body language of a man powerfully annoyed. There was a dog in agility class with the same pissed-off demeanor. No one wanted to be near him, always afraid that the next growl would be followed by a bite. Everybody else loved the free playtime they were given after class, chasing each other, wrestling, or simply standing side by side. Not this guy. He left as soon as the class was over, his human keeping his leash in both hands.

Artie holds the cell in front of him, resting it on the steering wheel. Mack hears the distorted sound of Justine’s voice emanating from the tiny rectangle as Artie listens to the stream of messages. One word is recognizable: Mack. He wags the tip of his tail at the sound of it. Yawns and swallows to show Artie that he knows that word. If he can hear that word, and recognize Justine’s voice, she must be close by. Just out of sight.