Beside him, the dog lifted its head.
“Easy now, Ranger,” the man murmured, his voice low and rough, like gravel rolled by water for many years.
The dog’s ears flicked toward him.
Ranger was a Belgian Malinois, once built like a blade of muscle and speed, though time had softened the edges of that sharpness. His muzzle had turned silver, and a faint scar ran along his flank, a pale line that hinted at stories the diner patrons inside would never guess.
Around his neck hung a thick nylon collar stamped with simple black lettering: Retired Military Working Dog.
Two metal tags clinked softly beneath it.
The man opened the truck door, and the two stepped out together into the bright desert afternoon.
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