not a bomb, Ellie muttered against her mother’s collarbone, her small lower lip jutting out. It’s my secret shiny. I hid it in my shoe so Toby wouldn’t grab it at the depot.
Vincent tilted his head. Your secret shiny?
Atlas gave a low, sharp chuff, his nose barely an inch from the red canvas, body rigid as granite. Whatever was inside that shoe, it carried a scent the dog had learned in military kennels under hot desert suns—a scent meant to stop convoys in their tracks.
Vincent knelt slowly. His knees clicked against the frost. He didn’t use tongs or gloves; he simply lowered his hands, palm up, letting Atlas verify his scent before sliding two careful fingers past the sneaker’s tongue.
Ellie watched him with huge, watery eyes. Don’t break it.
I won’t break it, Vincent said softly.
His fingers met the rough grit of a river stone
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