Free Withered + Sere (Immemorial Year Book 1) by TJ Klune Page A

it back.
    Hank was the closest thing alive aside from Bad Dog that Cavalo had as a friend, though Cavalo didn’t quite know how to handle that. Bad Dog wanted to eat. Sleep. Hunt. Shit. Have his ears rubbed every now and then. Nothing more.
    Hank liked to talk. And talk. And talk. Cavalo didn’t know how to do that. He’d forgotten. He hadn’t been one for immaculate social graces before, but it wasn’t until after she and Jamie had—
    Well. He didn’t care much for it.
    Cavalo sighed inwardly as Hank approached. Deke wasn’t far behind him, at least having the common decency to look slightly embarrassed, the foolish boy. Cavalo didn’t see Warren yet. Or Alma. But he knew they were there. Somewhere.
    “Well, as I live and breathe,” Hank Wells boomed. “Glad to see you ain’t dead. Decided to grace us with your presence?”
    Cavalo steeled himself against the impending touch, the bees buzzing in the back of his head telling him to run to head for the trees and back to the mountains so he didn’t have to be around these people. So he didn’t have to answer their questions. They always had questions.
    Before he could get his legs to work, Hank was on him, grabbing Cavalo’s hand, squeezing it hard as he pumped it up and down. Other hand slamming onto Cavalo’s back, once. Twice. A third time. Cavalo didn’t have to crane his head upward to know that Hank was smiling, a wide thing filled with large, square teeth.
    “Hank,” Cavalo said.
    Hank glanced over at Psycho as he let go of Cavalo’s hand and stepped back. His expression remained neutral, but Cavalo knew that mind under that balding head was whirling faster and faster, calculating, processing. Cataloging. Planning, though for what, Cavalo couldn’t yet say. While they’d known each other a long time, Hank was still a mystery to Cavalo. He supposed he was to Hank, too, but then there wasn’t much he wanted to do to change that.
    “Bad Dog,” Hank said in greeting. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of deer jerky. “Pray.”
    Bad Dog immediately rose up on his hind legs, sitting on his haunches. His front paws came up under his snout and he rolled his head toward the lead sky, tongue hanging out. Dear Jesus-Dog , Bad Dog said, though only Cavalo could hear him. Please let BigHank give me that jerky. I love jerky. So much. Love, Bad Dog.
    Cavalo rolled his eyes as delighted laughs went through the crowd. Any other command Hank (or anyone else) would give, Bad Dog would ignore. Every one except pray . And with that, he would only do it for Hank. Cavalo had tried it once, after returning to the prison from a provision trip into Cottonwood. Bad Dog had just rolled his eyes, snatched the jerky from Cavalo’s hand, and gone to sleep.
    Now Hank tossed the jerky into the air, and Bad Dog came out of prayer, snapping up the meat before it could hit the ground. Oh yes. I love it! I love it so much!
    “It’s not that good,” Cavalo said. “You act like you never eat.”
    “What’s he saying?” Hank asked, and Cavalo suddenly remembered that they weren’t alone. Far from it. Hank had never questioned Cavalo’s half-crazy (for that’s what it had to be, when Cavalo really thought on it) assertion that Bad Dog spoke, at least not to Cavalo’s face. Maybe he even actually believed, though the man didn’t want to ask him to find out. Sometimes not knowing was better than knowing the answer to that one question that sounded like bees.
    “He says thank you,” Cavalo muttered, feeling what seemed to be thousands of pairs of eyes upon him, judging. Mocking. Laughing.
    Crazy, crazy, crazy , the bees said. Crazy man with the crazy dog. Dogs don’t talk, crazy man.
    I’m not a normal dog , Bad Dog reminded him, sniffing the ground, obviously hoping jerky had fallen from his mouth. I can talk because I am Bad Dog. And I didn’t say thank you. I said I love jerky.
    “You’re welcome,” Hank said, leaning over to drag his knuckles over