“Hypok said to the animal control officer. “She’s four.” The officer—a dour hag of perhaps thirty—told him where the puppy run was, and if he didn’t find one he liked there, he could try the kennels out back for a slightly older dog. Hypok knew the drill here, but he asked all the standard questions anyway. It had been six months or so since he’d hit them up for Moloch chow. The officer on duty today was one he’d never seen before, but it paid to be careful when your face—former face—was on a fr...eeway billboard not two miles away. It was really kind of a thrill to glide through the world with a new look, but you didn’t want to press it. Hypok thanked her and walked back to the puppy run. He tilted a little on his way in—all that cactus juice flowing—but it was a good tilt, kind of a personal slant on things. Part of the new look. He was fresh from a shower and change of clothes—khaki pants with pleats, an almost matching cotton long-sleeved shirt with plenty of outdoorsy, all-American looking pockets and epaulets on it, manly gray socks and a pair of work boots.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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