“They won’t wake up,” a voice crackled over the airwaves.
The air once electrified, suddenly, deadened in silence.
“The GPS reads the warehouse district, Mytch,” Matt spoke. He began buckling the special footwear for Boots, my Labrador. Unlike the country club last night, where we were heading needles potentially puncturing my otherwise unprotected rescue dog’s feet would be found by the gross.