Page 20 of Wayfarers

Naturally, I didn’t say a word of that. But every cell in my body was imploring me to.

Here’s what I do say: “You have a dog, right?”

“Everyone here has a dog.”

“Like a big golden retriever. With a sweet face.”

“As opposed to a golden retriever with a terrifying face?”

“I mean.”

“One of those golden retrievers missing an eye, with blood dripping from its fangs and a torn ear?” the Girl says.

“All right, I get it. Stupid. But that was you, right?”

“The golden retriever?”

And I’ve just fallen in love a little bit. What’s better than a beautiful girl who will throw down a dumb joke. “You do actually kinda look like a golden retriever, if that makes sense. It’s a compliment.”

“People seem to gravitate toward dogs that match them.”

“What’s his name?”

“How do you know he’s a he?”

“Besides the fact you just told me, every time I’ve encountered a girl traveling with a dog, it’s a boy dog.”

“His name’s Winslow.”

“That’s a good name. I used to have a dog named Bilbo.”

“Winslow and Bilbo sort of rhyme.”

“Hey.”

“Winslow’s really nice. He likes people.”

“As opposed to a golden retriever who hates people and just wants to be alone and not be bothered with chasing a slobbery tennis ball.”

“I deserved that. You got me. But yeah, he’s a sweetie. Loves tummy rubs. Don’t say ‘as opposed to a golden retriever who hates tummy rubs.’ You get one, not two.”

I smile. “I wasn’t gonna.” Then something comes over me. “I have a really weird question.”

“Do I need my pepper spray?”

“No, no. Not weird like . . . I’ll just ask. Do I smell okay?”

Sylvie Later, Three A.M.

Still awake, holding

Winslow like

a teddy bear. Get up,

check the locks

again. When I get