seventeen
The letter had not slipped from my mind. Well, it had slipped from my mind, but then it had slipped back in. It had slipped from my mind because of the shock of the dog and the unease I felt about the living room. It had slipped back in when I saw it once more on the counter where George had placed it.
First the dog demanded my attention. He was scratching at the door and whining to be let in. Mad dogs and Englishmen, apparently, so at least this dog wasn’t insane. A gust of hot air accompanied him into the kitchen. I found a bowl, filled it with water from the tap, and set it before him. He launched at it before lapping at it desperately. Such a noise.
The handwriting on the envelope alone told me it was from Cass. That, and the fact that it was a letter. Whereas the post-car
