First published here
Olivia Clark couldn’t find it. The punch for her Braille writer had rolled off the counter and apparently into oblivion. She was on her knees, feeling the floor, foot by foot, grumbling. Woofy, her ever-happy dog, thought it was a game. He danced around, nuzzled her neck and generally got in the way.
“God, Woofy. Go away someplace. You’re not helping.”
The screen door admitted plentiful sunshine, but it would never be enough. What it did admit this afternoon was the sound of a man’s voice calling her name, probably from the back gate that opened to the alley.