Then there is the sound of another voice leaking out of the tiny speaker.

“Shit.” Artie glances at his side mirror with the expression of a squirrel being chased. “Goddamn it.” Artie pitches the cell phone into the back, where it lands with a silent thud in Justine’s vacant sleeping bag. “Freakin’ A. Hell’s Angels?” He guns the motor and picks up speed.

Artie continues to mutter. Mack remains upright on the seat that bears so much of Justine’s scent. He gives Artie sideways glances, the tenor of that voice keeping him alert and wary. He won’t go back to sleep. Not now. Mack will stay alert until Justine comes back.

The dog knows that it is deep night, the time of day when a good dog is tucked into his bed, nose under tail. A good dog who sleeps only lightly, one part of him always at the ready to defend the house against intruders. Skunks. Possum. Nightmares. One of Mack’s jobs is to comfort Justine when she wakes at night.

Artie downshifts and brakes, the truck slowly coming to a halt. Mack wags his tail. At last! He even whines, just a little, to let Artie know he’s happy. Artie has stopped talking. The truck idles and Artie sits still. Mack peers at the window but sees nothing.

This wasn’t like any of the places where they’d stopped before. This was just the side of the road. The cars zoom past them, the headlights streaming together like something liquid; other semis rush by, making even the weight of the truck vibrate a little.

Artie pushes open his door and drops to the ground. He comes around to the passenger side. The door swings open and man and dog are face-to-face. “Get the fuck out.” Artie grabs for Mack’s ruff. The dog instinctively pulls back and the man is left holding the dog’s collar, not the dog. He makes another lunge and this time gets a fistful of fur and skin. Artie drags Mack across the seat, yanking him out the open door so hard that the dog falls to the ground before he can get his feet under him, landing hard on his side, pushing the air out in an audible whuff. Mack gets up, shakes, and waits. Artie is on the ground now, feet planted, hands in fists. “Get out of here. Go on, git.”

Mack growls; this is too much. Even a well-behaved dog has limits. Artie steps closer. Mack pins his ears back and lowers his head, but he doesn’t growl again. He knows that this man is his last connection to Justine. He keeps his head down, his eyes pinned on Artie’s eyes, like his sheep-herding forebears.

“They can’t prove nothing, if you ain’t here.” The flashers are beating a hectic rhythm against the dark. Artie swings a leg over the guardrail. “Come here, boy.” His voice is all sweetness, a gooey sound that doesn’t fool the dog.

Mack keeps to his side of the metal rail. Artie pats his knee. “Come on.”