He didn’t try to run.
That frightened Jack more than any growl would have.
He simply leaned there, trembling so hard Jack could feel it through his sleeveless leather vest.
Jack was forty-six, broad through the shoulders, with faded tattoos running down both arms and a beard that had gone gray around the chin earlier than he liked. He had been riding home after helping a friend replace a transmission two towns over. He was tired, sweaty, and irritated about a grinding sound coming from the back of his motorcycle.
Ten minutes earlier, his biggest problem had been whether the noise meant another expensive Saturday in the garage.
Then he had turned onto a quiet residential street and seen the dog.
At first Jack almost kept going.
There were plenty of dogs behind fences in that neighborhood.
Then he noticed there was no fence.
No shade.
