turned out to be a junkyard in Glades City, which I thought was an intentional error until I saw the dog. It was a brindle-yellow pit bull, the same alpha female that had attacked me Friday, minus her pack mate whose head had been found in a freezer. By the time I saw the dog, it was too late. I had parked and walked to the fence, which was chain-link, eight feet high, with razor wire at the top. Inside, among rows of wrecked cars, was a trailer that looked lived in, but a sign on the door read Office. There was also a gravel path that seemed to invite business. I tried hollering to get attention but a machine—a wood shredder, it sounded like—made so much noise, I couldn’t hear my own voice. The noise came at me in waves and was piercing, so I covered my ears as I walked to the gate. It was a sliding gate, not open but slightly ajar. I looked around and tried hollering again. Pointless. There was a Keep Out sign, but no warnings about a dog, so I slipped through the gate and walked toward the trailer.
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