What this neighborhood termed a shed looked like a mini-apartment to Jared. The snug yellow building had pale blue window boxes and shutters, a curved roof, and even a cupola on the top. A small deck held a dozen potted plants and two child-sized Adirondack style chairs, a welcoming look. But one of them looked out of place. Had it been pushed aside?
The door was open.
Jared lurched forward, not seeing the child’s Big Wheel in the mist above the grass, and he slammed onto it. The clackety wheels turned and spit, making a ripping sound that carried in the quiet morning. It sounded loud as an elephant’s bellow.
Double shit.
The parakeet shrieked. He could imagine it beating its wings against its cage, batting at the wire and sure enough, on his left, in the next yard came a piercing bark. A small dog, but a yippy, annoying bark, high-pitched.