Her small fingers were already reaching toward the cup of whipped cream.
“Easy,” I murmured, glancing down at the dog. “You keep feeding him like that and he’ll forget he’s supposed to be disciplined.”
Atlas flicked his eyes toward me without moving his head.
It was the look of a soldier who understood the joke.
Then the sirens arrived.
Not loud, just a quick burst from the police cruiser pulling into the shopping center parking lot.
But the patio noticed.
And the manager, a thin man named Harold who wore his anxiety like an extra piece of clothing, practically sprinted toward the arriving officers.
“That’s them,” he said, pointing directly at us. “The biker and the animal.”
The word animal carried just enough fear to stir the entire café into uneasy silence.
