The lawns became smaller.
Paint peeled from porch railings.
Several cars sat under faded covers.
A bicycle without a front wheel leaned against one fence.
The dog crossed another street without pausing.
I hurried after him.
“Where are you going?” I whispered.
Of course, he didn’t answer.
Nearly 20 minutes later, he stopped in front of a small, run-down house at the very end of a dead-end street, scratched twice at the front door, and sat down and waited.
I stopped near the sidewalk.
My heartbeat had picked up.
The house was narrow and weathered.
One shutter hung slightly crooked.
The porch steps were cracked along the edges.
The dog looked completely at ease.
Like he had done this before.
I almost walked away.
Whatever mystery I had invented in my mind suddenly felt intrusive.
Maybe the dog belonged to an elderly person.
Maybe somebody simply let him roam.
Maybe there was nothing unusual about any of it.
