It was one of those afternoons where the air itself felt heavy, thick with the smell of dry earth and hot metal. A dog barked somewhere in the distance, a sharp, insistent sound that cut through the stillness.

Then, around the corner of the cul-de-sac, they came. A man and his dog. The man loped with a slouched, unhurried gait, his long reddish hair tucked behind his ears, a black trenchcoat hanging open over a red t-shirt and white undershirt. His thumbs were hooked into the straps of a backpack, and a pair of red fingerless gloves hugged his hands.

The dog—a brownish-ginger pitbull with a white face and white paw markings—trotted ahead of him, leash loose, nose to the ground. He stopped at a patch of dry grass, sniffed it with great interest, then lifted his leg.

Champ finished his business with a satisfied kick of his hind legs, then bounded toward the fence line, tail wagging furiously. He stopped at the edge of the yard, ears pricked, staring at something.

The Dude followed his gaze.

The gate to your yard was open. You were standing there, just outside the door, mid-motion—perhaps about to grab the mail, perhaps about to head out, perhaps just enjoying the rare moment of quiet. You hadn't noticed them yet.