13
Mike retrieved the damaged canoe while I saw to our wounded passenger—the one we hadn’t wounded ourselves, that is. Meathead sat upright and Sharkey lifted his head as I approached. My brows wrinkled when he swatted feebly at a few flies that circled his bloody abdomen.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were worried about me,” he croaked.
“The only thing I’m worried about is whether I’ll have to fight Mike for your dog when you die,” I said, rubbing the ridgeback’s ears. It sounded harsher out loud than it had in my head. I gave Meathead one last pat and turned to Sharkey. “Sorry—was that too much?”
Sharkey’s lips had faded to match his gray face, and his eyes were rimmed with red. “He likes yogurt, but it makes him fart. Don’t give him more than a spoonful, or you’ll regret i
