The park is a wide, brown stretch of winter grass, ringed by bare oaks and a chain-link fence. Seven crawls at his left heel, the leash clipped to her collar. Eight trots at his right, nose to the ground, a low whuff-whuff in his throat with every new scent. Two leashes. One in each hand.
The bell at her throat keeps its nervous rhythm. Tink-tink-tink.










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