Summer 2011 • Vol. XXXIII No. 3 Fiction |

Wolf

When the dogs first came crashing through the fence, Melly didn't even try to stop them. She laughed, at first, to see them—their humped backs like whales, their gritted teeth—because they wanted so badly to get into her backyard, and she didn't know why anyone would. She'd been sitting on the lawn chair all day with Kailey Ann, drinking sodas and telling lies and swapping answers for math. When the dogs came, it sounded like the great rustling of something sinister gathering itself up and racing through the park—through the slanted blue aluminum houses and potted cacti, through the tire swings and weed gardens, through the cars with duct-taped windows and toothless men with beers at noon and children screaming in the sand—to kill something. "Sugar!" said Kailey Ann. "They're going to eat us!" But they didn't. They went straight for the Chihuahua, Sammy, and they went after it as though the little dog had insulted them somehow, or owed them drug money, or had ratted them out

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When the dogs first came crashing through the fence, Melly didn't even try to stop them. She laughed, at first, to see them—their humped backs like whales, their gritted teeth—because […]

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