“I didn’t see an office.”

He slides the nightstick out of its loop and uses it like a professor using a pointer, as if his forefinger wouldn’t be enough. “Over there, three doors down. Big sign. Somebody will help you.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“No problem.”

I am aware of him watching me as I jog toward my destination. I assume it’s to make sure I get there and don’t cause some daytime mayhem on the way. Maybe it’s that he’s appreciating my ass. Either way, I’m glad when I reach the open office door, where, predictably, there is no one just sitting there waiting to help me.

I scan the company names printed over each of the bay doors, an array with a few familiar names, but mostly names of companies I’ve never heard of. I struggle to make Ra-Mar or De-Light-ly the name of the company Artie was hauling for. He was hauling a load of seed; that much I finally remember. Maybe one of the more floral-sounding names is where he backed up the truck. Or agricultural. Are there any farmers here? My mind is racing as the moments slip by and with them my chance to track down Artie. I start walking along the apron, skipping past skids loaded with shrink-wrapped goods. I look for any trailer that might have Colorado, Washington, or Iowa plates. I ask every worker there if he knows Artie Schmidt. “Did a guy driving from Washington State pull in last night?” They call into cavernous spaces, consult with one another, shift their yellow hard hats, but none of them has heard of Artie Schmidt. And no one has seen a dog.

I get down the length of one of the warehouses and realize that each building is two-sided; another whole lineup of trailers is backed up on the other side. As I reach the end of the line, I see my friend the guard. He is not smiling at me.

“You find the boss?” The guard is on the ground, looking up at me as I stand on the loading dock.

“No, and I don’t have time to wait.”

“Then come back when you can. Only authorized visitors can be here.” Viewed from above, he’s a little less scary.

“Do I look like I’m going to run off with a load of machine parts?” I’ve really had enough. The frustration of the past day and night feels like an elastic band in my gut. It is wound as tight as it can go and in the next second it could snap, and I won’t be responsible for the outcome. The big guy needs to back off. “I’m looking for Artie Schmidt. He’s the thief. He’s stolen my dog. I have to find him now.”

The guard is older than he looked to be at first. There is a little round bald spot that is clearly visible as he drops his gaze to the ground. He looks up at me. “You want to file a report?”