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“listen,” Mutt says, “listen.” her eyes glisten, and don’t find focus. it’s the stundra–it makes her watery, loosens the logicollective locus. what’s connective in her hunkered headbound herding doesn’t weave a well-formed wording–the greys are losing sangfroid. the largest one slaps her; she blinks, tilts her head, groans a long interrogative schwa.

Karl steps forward, pushes the large one aside. “i tried that. she’s gone stunning to sundered.” he holds up the emptied vial. “and no wonder. you won’t get answers so.” he goes down on a knee near the fetalying snitch. “listen, my lovely little bitch. we need your golden retriever, not your black lab. come out of that slab and slip into speech.” Mutt reaches out, takes hold of Karl’s ear. he clasps her wrist; he’s gentle. that’s when she first shows fear.

Published inthe Greyhounds