I found her at my favorite coffee house, where she’d just arrived after a walk with Hercule. Hercule didn’t much care for leashes, mind you, but he loved the café’s blueberry muffins and the owners loved him. A few months ago, Angel had been sitting outside at the café when a young couple got into a heated argument beside her. The boyfriend—a large, wiry guy who needed a bath far more than he needed the beer he carried into the café—happened upon his girlfriend and was enraged that she’d walked out on him. Angel didn’t blame her. She was a pretty little thing about half the guy’s size and clearly outclassed him. When he knocked her coffee into her lap and readied for a punch at her face, Sylvia, the owner, stepped in. Sylvia took the brunt of the guy’s right cross intended for his girlfriend. That was the last punch he threw. Hercule had been lying beside Angel and launched himself atop the drunk boyfriend in a second. He grasped the guy’s wrist in his mouth, put him on the ground, and growled a warning.
