He wanders the perimeter, noses through the garden, and finally sits with his paws crisscrossed in front of him in the very center of the small square of grass. Moonlight illuminates his white patches.“When did you get a dog?” asks Jimmy, an earnest young woman who loves baking bread nearly as much as I do.“He belongs to Sofia’s stepdaughter.”“Cute.”“Yeah,” I say, and oil the loaves on the table, then set them aside to rise one more time. Automatically I glance at the big clock on the wall. “These should go in the oven at five.”“Got it. Extra steam?”I nod and glance out the window again, but Merlin isn’t sitting in the grass anymore. I lean to one side to see if I can see him along the fence, but he’s not there, either. Frowning, I untie my apron. “I’d better check on the dog.”In chef’s clogs, I clump through the back door and down the old wooden steps. “Merlin!” I call, but he probably doesn’t even know that’s his name yet. I whistle, hands on my hips.
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