I called Taylor Sand and Gravel from school.“Taylor Sand and Gravel. How can we help?” A man’s voice.“Taylor?”“Yes.”“I need road grave... ... my driveway is gonna kill me.”“And you are where?”“You know the Log Cabin past the ninety curves on Wolf Creek?”“Yes I do.”“That drive,” I said.Under his breath I heard him say, “Christ, that’s a long bastard.”“Yes ... it’s a long bastard,” I agreed.“Sorry, about that.”“Can you grade it ... and roll?”“You want Taylor to build you a new driveway? What kind. . 46 miles from Stevenson ... under an hour.”Vanessa was kneading the tension in my shoulders more firmly. Adam was on semi-alert — he could sense the stress in our voices.I read, “Parking lot behind a bar called Buddy’s.” I closed my eyes, “I have to fly down there.”“Of course.”The hardest thing for Adam — it went against his training, his instinct, his Cane Corso heredity — was leaving me alone. Like when I flew away on a trip. Or had to leave him in Matt’s Audi when I went somewhere that. More

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