It was dusk when Emmett rose to his feet with a growl. Don had just mentioned making a pot of coffee and I was about to suggest I do it since his coffee remains terrible black syrup, despite lots of coaching from me in the form of, "You know, you could start a second career as a roofer with this s**t" and other helpful bits of advice.
Though silent, Teva, joined Emmett, her ears forward, head up, air-scenting.
Bad, said Emmett.
Zip, who was puzzled by the other dogs' response, got up as well, his nose working as he tried to understand what they were worried about.
We stood, joining the dogs, straining to hear whatever they were hearing.
Nothing. Not so much as a breeze.
Bad, Emmett repeated.
If he were wrong, then it would go down as a drill. But Emmett is rarely wrong. Would that I
