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The Landlord's Dog

Mr. Hollis owns the house. You rent the upstairs, way below market.

When you lost your job last winter, he let you skip two months of rent. Nobody else would have.

His old beagle, Pepper, lives on a chain in the backyard, all day, every day.

Today it's ninety-eight degrees. No shade. And Pepper stopped barking an hour ago.

Mr. Hollis won't be back until dark, and he doesn't answer texts.

From your window, you see Pepper lying flat. His water bowl is tipped over and empty.

What do you do?

The story so far

You've lived above Mr. Hollis for three years. He fixed your sink at midnight once, in his pajamas, and refused to take a dime. He calls you "kiddo" and leaves tomatoes from his garden on the stairs. He also leaves Pepper outside from sunrise to sunset, clipped to a rusty stake by the shed. You've mentioned it twice, gently. He just said, "He's a dog. Dogs live outside." Today the air feels thick enough to chew. The fence is six feet tall and the gate has a padlock. Your neighbor Rosa is watering her roses across the street and keeps glancing at the yard too. Pepper's tongue is out. His sides are moving fast. He hasn't lifted his head in a while.

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