12.

The wind-bitten flyer read “Lost Dog” and profiled a large, mixed breed he’d never seen before. He brainstormed some possibilities–St. Dane? Huskeranian?–then ripped off a callback ribbon to feel better about himself. As he turned the corner his phone erupted; the incoming string of digits matched the one now floating inside his pocket. Haltingly, he swiped to receive, but no voice answered–just the wet, tortured panting of a hope-forgotten animal, racing full-bore through the unnamed dark.

grh

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