When a Scruffy Little Dog Refused to Let an Old Woman Disappear

counter where I stood.

“Hey, buddy,” I whispered, my stomach dropping. “Where’s Clara?”

Usually, their routine was a synchronized dance. Clara would sip her black coffee and scribble on index cards with a shaky hand. Then, she’d tuck a card into Barnaby’s saddlebag and give a subtle hand signal. Barnaby would navigate the diner like a little furry waiter,continue reading …