. . .

Every week when the grim white arms of the schoolbus seize Saul up and drag him into its mouth, and further in, the puppy barks. It licks the bus.

The bus writhes in its discomfort and it shakes itself and its engine groans.

Then the puppy sits down and it waits patiently for Saul, for its Saul, to come home.

It hasn’t gotten much bigger. It is still trapped inside the stone. The stone creaks and cracks, sometimes. The puppy licks it with its acid-dripping tongue. The puppy’ll get there — but not yet, and a puppy trapped in stone doesn’t grow too well.

<< . . .

. . . >>