Thousand: Three Hundred Eighty-Eight

that’s our ride?” The dog’s tail is almost still and the growl is joined by pricked up hackles. “You’re the boss.” He reaches into the inner pocket of his coat and pulls out a wallet. He takes out a pink business card and uses the card to shoo the scorpion onto the loafer’s upturned sole. He blows on it, keeping it corraled, while he shuffles over to a thorny shrub, right for a scorpion?, and drops it off. The dog is already bouncing away through the bushes, curl of yellow tail beckoning, so Bernie puts on the shoe (it slips