Noah looked at him.
“Bring him.”
I glanced at Caleb.
“Slowly.”
Caleb shortened the leash and approached.
Marlowe trembled from nose to tail.
When he reached the chair, he did not jump.
He pressed his head against Noah’s right knee and made a wounded sound deep in his throat.
Noah stared.
Marlowe lifted his face.
His muzzle had gone nearly white over the last year. His dark eyes remained fixed on Noah with uncomplicated devotion.
Noah raised his right hand.
The dog leaned into it before contact.
His fingers sank into Marlowe’s fur.
“Hey, old man.”
My breath caught.
It was exactly what he always called him.
Noah looked at me.
“Did you tell me that?”
“No.”
His hand stopped.
Marlowe nudged it impatiently.
Noah resumed stroking his head.
“Another one?”
“Maybe.”
His eye filled.
Marlowe licked his wrist.
“That’s disgusting,” Noah whispered.
The dog’s tail struck the pavement harder.
Caleb wiped his face with his sleeve.
