Rat terriers are small, not as small as Chihuahuas, but still one could fit inside a backpack. Brady discovered this after failing to wrestle his cell phone from the dog’s mouth. Pressed for time and unwilling to hurt the animal, he carried the snarling fur ball to his car. The tires had been slashed.

A desperate time that called for desperate measures. Brady knocked out the motorcyclist that was pulling into the adjoining parking spot. As gently as he could he dragged the man over to a tree, propped him up, and took his keys and backpack. Empting the pack, he shoved the dog inside. A perfect fit.

Brady strapped on the pack, hopped on the cycle, and drove off. As they powered down the streets, the dog pushed open the bag to pop its head out, its tongue flapping in the wind, spittle to the breeze. In his intensity, Brady didn’t notice, however.

He didn’t even feel the tiny paws resting on his shoulders as he stopped at the Salem Meat Market. Nor did he pay attention to the funny looks he received when he pushed his way to the counter, demanded a steak, and threw a twenty at the help.

The butcher knew that a bleeding man with a dog on his back was a definite health code violation, but decided against telling Brady to get the hell out. He figured he’d be rid of the twosome quicker if he complied. Wrong. The dog jumped over Brady’s shoulder to the ground, grabbing the steak in transit the instant it appeared.

The Chinese equivalent to “What a greedy bastard,” escaped Brady’s lips before he remembered the cell phone. The dog continued to woof at the meat as Brady grappled with the bag. Meanwhile, the butcher stepped forward. Enough was enough.

“You’re going to have to get that dog out of here...”

“Yes, yes, keep the change.” Brady continued to look for the phone.

“I said, get out, you nut job.”

“One minute.”

“No,” The butcher grabbed the back pack and made to kick the dog, “Take your mutt--“

But Brady blocked the kick with his leg, simultaneously flipping the butcher to the ground. “…And go,” the butcher finished weakly as Brady finally located the phone.

It had fallen to the floor and was full of saliva. Holding it by the antenna with his finger tips, Brady looked down, “Do you have a towel?” He asked politely.

The butcher held up his apron, proving contrary to popular belief that courtesy yet lives in America. Then he passed out. Mumbling many thanks and apologies, Brady wiped off the phone, picked up the dog that wouldn’t let go of the steak, and ran outside.

He called Bo. Will was safe and the police were on their way to the Wesely house.

“You are a good luck dog. Will’s OK; everything is OK.” In his joy, Brady picked up the dog to kiss it, but since the steak was still dangling from its clearly visible clenched teeth as it growled—he changed his mind.

He changed his mind again after calling Chloe only to hear Ling’s voice on the line. The dog was bad luck.