they were still alive next morning and he was lucky, he’d get himself a litter of part-wolf.” I glanced behind me, but I couldn’t tell which man in back had spoken. “Now that sounds cruel. What would be the point of that?” asked the dreadlock-woman indignantly. “Point is, they’re damn vicious watchdogs,” said the voice impatiently. “Ain’t no one gone mess with you if you got a wolf.” I peered into the dark space on the floor of the van and the needlenosed wolf-dog stared up at me with clouded eyes. She was blind. Some watchdog she’d be. But as I reached to pet her a growl rose up in her throat. “Is Baby friendly?” asked Burberry. The driver shrugged. “Maybe she’s not used to the passenger in front.” The passenger in front? Did he mean me? Specifically, personally, me? Or just any shotgun rider? I crammed my hands into my coat pockets and sat straighter in my seat, my feet very still. The van had exited the highway and was driving on the road beside the river. “This ain’t the route the bus takes,” observed a voice from the back. “Maybe—maybe it’s to avoid the traffic,” suggested Burberry. “No busses allowed on park roads,” said the hog. “But he can drive here because he’s just a van. We’ll be at K of P in twenty minutes.” The road left the river and wound uphill towards the park mansions. I gazed out the rain-streaked window, trying to take my mind off the dog at my feet. Trees. A garden, with statues. Trees. More Trees. It was hard not to think of Baby. Sitting up front beside in this small space her felt like taking a
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