Mac sat alone in the trailer. It was somewhere around ten thirty at night, and Virginia had been right—he was exhausted. He wore nothing but a pair of plaid flannel boxers. His third beer of the night, a bottle of Iron City, sat sweating before him on the coffee table. He’d gorged himself on the baked ham, lasagna, and casseroles family, friends, and neighbors had brought by. Even now the kitchen table was covered with food he could never possibly finish.
He knew it was only seven thirty in Seattle, and that was the reason he clutched his smartphone in his right hand. Flynn. He needed to hear his voice. He wondered too how Barley was getting on, if he was missing Mac too much. He grinned. It was a bittersweet prize, knowing deep in his heart that he, Mac, was the one the dog truly favored
