Never straight ahead, because that’s where the dog was, because it was watching her. She had no doubt that the dog came for her now, after first coming, perhaps, perhaps, for Marko or the children. But she so hated the idea of Daniel and Annika being monitored, guarded, or looked after by that dog, the idea that they might need any such protection or oversight, and that the dog might have known it, she so hated that idea that she’d pushed it aside in disgust, and so the very notion struck her as absurd. Not because it was, but because even thinking of it was troubling, repellent, and hurtful. The children needed only the vigilance, the deep, anxious love that she gave them, she and Marko, and the big brown dog that in this unknown land had decided to serve as her consort or sentinel had that right alone, for her alone—certainly not the right to take responsibility for her children. But suppose Marko would have been pleased to have that dog looking after him? Still, she was by no means sure that the dog meant her well; she never approached it, never waved at it, never even met its gaze.
