Grant Mercer put the smaller bottle of pain reliever back on the shelf and checked the price beneath the larger one. More tablets, less money per dose. He stood there long enough for a stock clerk to ask whether he needed help.
“No, thanks. Just doing the math.”
He bought the smaller bottle anyway. The difference was less than a dollar, but he needed that dollar today, not the savings he might enjoy next month.
At the register, he arranged his purchases so the bread wouldn’t get crushed: rice, beans, eggs, coffee, the bottle of tablets. He watched the total climb, then paid with bills he’d straightened before leaving home. The cashier wished him a pleasant evening. Grant lifted a hand on his way out.
Rainwater dripped from the store’s striped awning. Beyond it, Veyton, Wisconsin, was reopening after an afternoon shower. A woman wiped the seats outside a sandwich shop, and a man in rubber boots dragged a rack of boat cushions into the sunshine.
Grant tucked the paper grocery sack under his arm. He had five blocks to walk before the bottom got wet enough to fail.
His apartment stood beside a freight spur, in a brick building whose upstairs windows rattled whenever loaded cars passed. At thirty-nine, he knew the railroad schedule almost as well as he knew the hours at the veterans’ clinic. Neither required him to speak much.
The government deposited $914 into his account each month. He recorded it in a pocket notebook, then worked downward through rent, electricity, phone, prescriptions, food, fuel, laundry. Near the bottom of each page, the writing got smaller.
He’d once used notebooks to record wind, distances, routes, changes in terrain. As a navy SEAL and dog handler, he’d been paid to notice what others walked past. A dog shortening its stride. Freshly disturbed ground. A teammate going too quiet.
He still noticed. He no longer had anywhere useful to put most of it.
The mission that had killed his closest working dog had taken men, too. Sometimes a voice returned while Grant was washing a cup, no face attached, only a few words spoken years ago. Sometimes he woke already reaching for equipment that wasn’t there.
He had come home with scars a doctor could measure. The rest showed up in unanswered calls, unopened boxes, and the way he bought furniture only if it folded.
The route from the store took him past a bait shop, a small bakery closing for the day, and a display window filled with bright summer clothes. Visitors would arrive soon, towing boats and expecting a week beside the lake to set things right. Shop owners were repainting their doorframes. The marina had put its rental kayaks back on the racks.
Grant stepped around a puddle reflecting a row of empty flag holders. He could smell yeast from the bakery’s back vent and the sharp odor of a flooded storm drain.
At home, a saucepan sat soaking in water that had gone cold the previous morning. There was a mug on the stove, mail spread across the table, and a lightbulb over the sink that worked if he tapped the fixture just right.
He’d intended to take care of all of it before his clinic appointment. Then a prescription had cost more than expected, and he’d spent an hour on the phone making sure his payment wouldn’t interrupt his electricity.
By the time he got home, he’d sat down without taking off his jacket.
Now he turned toward the waterfront park, shortening his walk by a block. Wet sand had washed across the path near the boat launch. Someone had left a child’s red shovel on a picnic table, and gulls were investigating a paper cup caught under a bench.
A groundskeeper was wrestling a full trash bag into the back of a utility cart. Down by the docks, two people stood shoulder to shoulder beneath an umbrella, although the rain had stopped.
Then a man laughed.
Grant kept walking for three steps. He had learned to distinguish a noise he disliked from a problem he could afford to take home.
The laugh came again. Another man joined it.
A woman said something Grant couldn’t quite hear.
He stopped beside a bulletin board advertising swimming lessons and looked toward the lower path.
She was sitting on the narrow strip of grass beside the boat-launch fence. Her rain jacket had ridden up above one wrist, exposing a strip of reddened skin. Brown hair escaped from her hood, and she held a leash in both hands, winding and unwinding one small section with her thumbs.
An elderly German shepherd lay against her leg.
Even from a distance, Grant could see that getting up would cost the dog something. His rear legs were drawn carefully beneath him, and the fur around his mouth had gone nearly white. But his eyes followed the two men standing over the woman. Each time one of them moved, an ear turned.
A stone held down a piece of cardboard beside her shoe.
Dog for sale. $10.
The taller man nudged the stone with the toe of his boot.
“Ten bucks for him? What happens if he quits halfway to the truck?”
His companion bent slightly, hands on his knees. He was shorter, thick through the middle, with a face reddened by either weather or habit.
“Could put him out back at the shop. Might scare something if it didn’t get a good look at him.”
The woman drew the leash toward her without pulling on the collar.
“He isn’t going with you.”
Grant started down the path.
He didn’t accelerate. There were three people and an old dog in a confined space beside a fence. Sudden movement would help nobody.
The taller man spread his hands.
“Then why put up a sign? You want money or don’t you?”
“Maybe she wants an offer,” the other said. “Five dollars. That’s generous for something you’ve got to carry.”
The woman looked toward the open path behind them. Grant saw her measure the distance, then glance at the dog.
“Please go.”
The shorter man straightened. His boots were expensive and almost unmarked, though he wore a work jacket with a torn pocket.
“You can’t sit here running this little operation. Families use this park.”
She lifted her chin. She looked about twenty-eight, but exhaustion had made it difficult to tell. Her face was narrow, her lips dry. A flattened cracker sleeve protruded from her jacket pocket.
The shepherd brought his front feet under his chest.
Grant watched the effort travel through him. First the forelegs, then the hindquarters, a brief hesitation while his joints took his weight. Once upright, he stepped across the woman’s knees and stood facing the men.
“Deacon,” she murmured.
Her palm rested on his shoulder. The dog neither lunged nor barked. He held his ground with his head slightly lowered.
The shorter man’s amusement faltered, then returned louder.
“Somebody forgot to tell him he’s retired.”
He reached toward the leash.
“Leave that alone,” Grant said.
Both men turned. Grant stopped just beyond the shepherd’s reach, giving the dog room to keep watching them.
The tall one took in the worn jacket, the grocery sack, the rain-darkened boots.
“We’re having a conversation.”
“She’s finished with it.”
The shorter man let his hand drop but didn’t step back. Grant felt the familiar tightening along his jaw and made himself loosen it before he spoke again.
He lowered his groceries onto a dry section of pavement.
“Now move away from her…”
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