I walk up to him, hoping he isn’t going to run away like he did every time I went outside to learn more about dog handling. Once, I’d asked him if he could tame adult wild dogs. He tipped his head and frowned, shrugged and laughed his odd throaty, huffing laugh. Then he disappeared, always with that knife gripped tightly and a tiny thing he hid the moment I approached. Today, though, it seems as if he wants to tell me something. Both his hands are dug deep in his trouser pockets. His lower lip is pushed out a little. I wonder if he’s mad at me. Last night, he put on his darkest expression when everyone was crammed into the council’s meeting room, and we thanked them for saving our lives and announced that we’d be leaving in the morning. The dog people — men and women with long hair that seems to melt into their fur coats — already knew. Rumour spreads faster than a dog fart, the saying here goes. When suspicions were confirmed, food and drink were carried in and cooked in two large fireplaces.
