Dog swung the front door open, taking two steps before unslinging his backpack, filled with, what he hoped, would be enough god-damned groceries for the week. He made to call out, then remembered.
What he wanted was at the bottom of the bag.
Too late in the day for any direct sun in the backyard, he sat in the thinning heat, sipping straight from the bottle, wiping his chin and every now and then, turning the page in the book he held in his lap. Birds flitted by. He lit a cigarette and half-wished he’d grown up in the desert.