Fiction
Wolf biteby J. Todd Scott
Ben Harper doesn’t shoot the dog.
It comes at him fast from around the other side of the trailer. Low to the ground, throwing dust and rocks. Head as big as a f*****g mailbox. Maybe a dishwasher, with a whole dinner setting worth of teeth, shined up bright. It’s a f*****g shark on brindle legs.
Barking its goddamn head off.
Harp thinks so much for surprise. The snitch, Clausen, didn’t say anything about dogs, and surveillance missed it last night on the drive-by. It happens.
Tommy Dale Keegan’s trailer sits back from the road, a few weathered pecan trees blocking a clear view. An old rusty Pontiac rests south of the front porch, canted at angle like it slewed to a stop there, but it hasn’t outraced anything in while. Years. It rots on bent rims, sink
