I call and whistle. Mack won’t know where I am, and he’ll be frantic. I am frantic as I begin to run, my wet towel lost on the pavement, my duffel banging against my back. “Mack! Mack! Come, boy. Mack!” My mouth dries out and I can’t whistle anymore.

Mack is obedient; if he hears me, he’ll come like a shot. He’s not the type of dog that would wander around; he’ll be looking for me, his nose to the ground, maybe heedless of the danger of being in this active parking lot. All of a sudden, it seems like every truck in this parking lot starts its motor in a cacophony of diesel. Mack can’t hear me over the noise; I bend to peer beneath the behemoths, looking and looking for the flash of white and gray that will be Mack. I can’t find him. I stop dead in the path of a moving truck. The driver slides a hand out his window, waving me across the lane.

Okay. If Mack isn’t here, then Artie still has him. I circle the TA building. Artie’s yanking my chain. If he’s still got Mack, then Artie hasn’t gone anywhere. He’s not going to do that. He’s got to be here. If he’s back on the road, there’s no way he’s going to turn around and come back; the time he’d lose in playing me would be too precious.

But there are no trucks on the other side of the building, just family cars, a horse trailer, and a Harley with a one-legged rider parked in a handicapped spot.

“Have you seen a dog? A Sheltie? Gray with black streaks. White ruff? One blue eye and one brown eye?” I keep talking, as if adding to the description will make the answer become yes.

The one-legged rider shakes his head, which is swathed in a filthy red bandanna. “Nope. Sorry. This is a tough place to lose a dog.” Like a lot of the rugged men I meet, he has a sympathetic voice, which does not match his tough appearance.

I collapse onto a bench in front of the building, all the strength in my legs gone, my heart thumping with a disconcerting loudness. I fight back the tears. In my experience, tears have never been useful, neither relieving pain nor offering comfort once shed. What I need is a plan. I need to stop Artie.

Artie has driven off with Mack.

* * *

Mack sleeps with his brushy tail curled up over his pointy nose. Tucked up like this, he’s a small package of dog, burrowed into the sleeping bag Justine has left unrolled on the bunk behind the driver’s seat. He’s quite pleased to wait, dozing, waking, dozing, for the people to return to the truck. There might be a taste of something good as a reward for being quiet and patient.

This mobile living is a bit boring, but he is satisfied with the almost constant presence of his Justine. Usually he has to doze, wake, doze for a long time every day until Justine comes back from her day away from him, smelling of beer and fried food. He loves that smell; once, when she took him with her to work, just to pick up her check, he immediately recognized the place as where she went during the day. The lovely odors defining her away time and making it comprehensible to him. Who wouldn’t want to be in a place that smelled like burgers?