I didn’t bother looking up at first.
I was too busy watching seven-year-old Chloe carefully dip the edge of a blueberry muffin into the whipped cream sitting in a small paper cup beside her. She concentrated with the seriousness only children possess, as if the success of the entire morning depended on the precise balance between pastry and cream.
Next to her sat Atlas.
If you saw Atlas from across the patio, you might understand why people got nervous.
He was enormous for a Belgian Malinois mix, nearly the size of a small wolf, with a thick chest and alert shoulders that never quite relaxed even when he was lying down. His fur was uneven in places where scars had grown over old wounds, and one ear was missing its top half, leaving a jagged edge that made him look permanently battle-worn.
To most strangers, Atlas looked like a dog that had survived something brutal.
To Chloe, he was just her best friend.
“Mr. Cole,” she said, tugging lightly at my sleeve, “can Atlas have some more?”
