Part 198 (2/2)

and plastic, a system that appalled his mother, but which suited Michael

just fine. Although his modest kitchen boasted a Whirlpool dishwasher,

he'd never owned a plate that required its services.

Satisfied, he poked through the cupboards, knocking over a bottle of El

Paso salsa and a jar of Skippy peanut b.u.t.ter. Shoving them aside, he

grabbed the box of shredded wheat. He shook some into a Chinet bowl,

then lifted the coffeepot and poured the steaming brew over the cereal.

He'd discovered this delicacy purely by accident on another groggy

morning. He'd nearly eaten his way through his breakfast when he'd

realized the coffee was on the cereal and the milk in the Styrofoam cup.

Since then, Michael had dispensed with the milk altogether. Before he

could sit and enjoy, he was interrupted by a banging on the back screen

door.

At first glance it appeared to be a five-foot gray mat. But mats didn't

have wagging tails or lolling pink tongues. Michael pushed open the

screen and was greeted exuberantly by the scruffy, oversized dog.

”Don't try to make up.” Michael shoved the huge paws off his bare

chest. The paws. .h.i.t the floor, but most of the mud on them remained on

Michael.

Conroy, pedigree unknown, sat on the linoleum and grinned. He smelled

almost as bad as a dog could possibly smell, but was apparently

unoffended by his own aroma. His hair was matted and full of burrs.

Michael found it hard to believe that he'd picked Conroy out of a litter

of cute, gamboling pups less than two years before. As an adult, Conroy

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