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eyes.  She’d read about wounded dogs, and knew they didn’t like to be touched, so she was more than a little concerned that he might turn on her.  Regardless, she kept her hand steady as she inched it out further.  She couldn’t leave an injured dog to fend for itself, no matter how intimidating it might look.
    When the dog stepped close enough, she smoothed a hand over the coarse fur of his large head, then patted his neck before leaning down to inspect his leg.  It appeared to be fine.  She slid a hand over the round of the animal’s hip, all the way down to the paw.  The dog didn’t whine or pull away.  She lifted his back leg and checked to see if anything was embedded in his paw.  Nothing there either, and of course he wasn’t wearing a collar.
    “Baby, I don’t know what’s wrong.”  She petted his neck.  “Wanna come in?  I bet you’re hungry.”  She shivered.  “And cold.”
    She turned and unlocked her door with icy fingers before pushing it open wide and whistling at the dog.  Her heart squeezed as he limped inside.
    As she entered the apartment, she noted that the dog trotted easily down the entryway that led to her sitting room.  “Hey,” she called after the animal.  “What happened to your limp?”
    She dropped her keys in a bowl that sat on the waist-high table just next to the door before turning and locking up, then following the dog down the hall.  At the end, she looked left.  Her empty TV stand sat against the far wall in front of a hunter green sofa and a worn, unmatching yellow love seat facing it.  A scratched, second-hand coffee table sat in the center of the room.
    No dog in there.
    Straight down the hall was the bathroom and master bedroom, but she knew where the dog would be.
    “Puppy?”  She whistled once as she turned right and entered her small kitchen.  A black pub-style table she’d picked up at a garage sale with two mismatched barstools sat against the far wall right next to her beat-up, avocado-green fridge that should have stayed in the 70s.  A matching stove was nestled in the counter space just across from the fridge, and her sink sat under a tiny window at the back of the small room.  Unfortunately, the space was too small to house the dishwasher that Cindy desperately wanted.  Just as well, she couldn’t afford one anyway.
    Scanning the room, she was surprised to find the dog wasn’t here either.  She whistled again.  “Hey you little faker, where’d ya go?”
    She turned from her kitchen and strode to the end of the hall.  Pushing the door to her bedroom fully open, she was shocked to find the large dog rolling in her bed.
    “Hey!  Get down, you mangy thing!”  She clapped her hands and yelled at the dog, but he continued rubbing his face and neck on her bedding.  Was he marking her bed with his scent?
    “Great!  I knew I should have left you outside, you stinkin’ fraud.”  She couldn’t help but laugh as his head came up, his ears pricking towards her as his head tilted.  It mirrored a gesture RedKnife had made earlier that evening.  The similarity sent a shiver of awareness down her spine before she shook it off.
    “I’m gonna call you Hoax you big phony.”  She went to the door and snapped her fingers, “Now come on and let me feed you so I can kick you out.  I’m tired.”
    Much to her surprise, the dog hopped effortlessly from the bed and led the way down the hall with no sign of the injury he’d used to gain entrance to her apartment.
    In the kitchen, she pulled a bag of tortilla chips from the cupboard before opening the fridge and retrieving a half-filled bag of shredded cheese, a small, browning head of lettuce, and a pound of ground venison she’d gotten from the community food bank.  Eyeing the near-empty fridge, her spirits soared when she spotted a bottle of beer in the crisper drawer.
    Yes!  “Score one for the good guys.”  She smiled as she retrieved the bottle and cracked the lid off.