and swung inward.
The girl marched through without waiting to be invited twice. She had taken perhaps four determined steps when Atlas appeared at the far end of the stone path.
He came at an easy trot, black mask sharp against his tawny face, ears upright, tail level, carrying a bright red sneaker delicately between his teeth. He was a Belgian Malinois, eight years old, and he had spent most of his life learning that certain objects mattered more than others. Vehicles. Luggage. Discarded backpacks. Shipping containers. Rooms that smelled perfectly ordinary to everyone else.
Vincent had met him after the dog’s retirement from an explosives detection unit, when an old handler told him Atlas did not need affection, only consistency. The handler had been wrong about the first part. Atlas had spent four years pretending he merely tolerated Vincent while sleeping every night outside his bedroom door.
Now the
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