“Barley,” Flynn whispered, heart hurting, and wondered for the second time if he had lost his dog.
He waited and waited, but Barley didn’t move away from the door for a long time. And when he did, Flynn would swear it was with an air of despair and disappointment. Barley sighed and curled up in a corner, facing the wall.7
Mac stared out the window of his attic room. It was Sunday, and he’d just finished his shift at Crumpet Strumpet. The afternoon, empty and devoid of responsibility, stretched before him, almost unwelcome. It had been one week since he’d last seen Hamburger…or Barley, Mac guessed he should call him now.
Outside, a rare-for-Seattle summer rain was drizzling down, making Green Lake look misty and green. Mac could imagine himself being in Ireland. Sundays in summer, the lake was usually crowded with visitors and Green Lake Way, beneath him, choked with bumper-to-bumper, stop-and-go traffic.