THE DOGS WERE COMING up Central Park West. Their racket bounced off the broken buildings lining the street, and came down into the park, and even the squirrels and birds were quieter, as if not wanting to attract attention.
Steven froze by the bole of a tree, ready to climb if the dogs came over the wall at him. He’d done that once before. You climbed up and waited while the dogs danced red-eyed beneath you, until they heard or smelled someone else, and then they were off, bounding hungrily after the new quarry. They’d learned that men in trees just didn’t come down.
The dogs passed the point in the park where Steven waited. He knew from the sound that they weren’t after anybody—just prowling. The howls and snarls and scratchy sounds of nails on concrete faded slowly.
Steven didn’t move
