They stepped outside and Bridget saw Jake standing only a few yards away, swatting flies in Wilcox’s shade and enjoying his cud. His chewing made Bridget think of food again and her hunger. The evening before, she’d eaten the last bit of potato. Some critter had stolen her stash, leaving her only a quarter of a potato full of teeth marks. Walking Jake along the road that morning, she’d found a mulberry tree, its branches nearly cleaned of fruit by the birds. She’d picked a half-rotten handful. Not enough, and too mushy and full of tiny fruit flies to bother taking back to share. She swallowed the whole sweet mess and licked her sticky hands. Even that was hours ago.
She lay down, the sharp edge of the porch cutting into the back of her neck.
Jake flicked his ears and moved from the shade
