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He leans into the back seat with his free arm and scoops Billy Bob up, moose blanket and all. His hand goes flat under the dog’s belly.

“Not his belly,” I say. “His butt.”

He moves his hand immediately, spreading it under Billy Bob’s hind end, and tucks the rest of him against his ribs like a football. Billy Bob’s back legs dangle. His ears swing. His tail, which was lashing, slows down.

Then he goes quiet. He’s discovered that the stranger is extremely warm. He sighs through his nose and lets his head sag against Merek’s arm, and that’s the end of the protest.

Merek bumps the car door shut with his hip and starts across the lot.

He doesn’t hurry. The rain comes down through the dock light in long silver lines, and he walks through it as if it isn’t there, with steam coming off his shoulders and his ember lines glowing gold through the wet. His tail curls up behind him, clear of the puddles. Under one arm is a basset hound in a moose blanket, ears swinging with every step. On the other is me, in sweatpants and a staff hoodie, holding on to a demon’s horn.

Billy Bob lets out a contented sigh and settles more firmly against Merek's side.

“Unbelievable,” I say. “I've spent six thousand dollars keeping that dog alive, and you win him over in thirty seconds.”

“I'm warm.”

“Apparently that's all it takes.”

Merek glances down at me, a grin spreading across his face. “Is it?”

I look away before he can see my smile. “For the dog.”

At the truck, he opens the back door one-handed and sets Billy Bob on the seat, blanket and all. Billy Bob turns around once and lies down. Then Merek opens the passenger door and lifts me up into a seat so high off the ground that I’d have needed to climb in. He starts the engine, turns the heat all the way up, and aims every vent at me.

“What do you need from the car?” he asks. “Tell me, and I’ll get it.”

I dig my keys out of the hoodie pocket and hold them up. He holds out his hand, and I put them in it.

“The blue duffel on the floor behind the driver’s seat. The kibble bin. Both his bowls. The ramp, the folding thing. His harness on the floor. His pills in the cupholder. My phone charger’s plugged into the dash.”

“Bin, bowls, ramp, harness, pills, duffel, charger.”

“And my boots.”

He goes back through the rain. He makes two trips, and the second time, he’s carrying the bin under one arm and the ramp under the other and my boots by their tangled laces in two fingers. He loads all of it into the bed under the cover, except the pills, the charger, and the harness, which he hands to me.

Then he hands back my keys.

I lean back between the seats and work Billy Bob into his harness while he groans about it, then clip the tether into the seat-belt buckle. He sighs and goes back to sleep.

I point the fob through the windshield and lock the Corolla. Across the lot, the lights blink, and the horn chirps once.

The truck has been fixed up for him. The driver’s seat isn’t the one it came with. It’s lower, on custom rails bolted so far back that it’s nearly into the second row, and even so, he drives with his head tipped a little to the left so his horns clear the roof. There are two worn patches in the headliner above him where they haven’t always.

The heater roars. In the back, Billy Bob is already snoring.

“Where do you live?” I ask.

“West Hills. Up past Forest Park.”

We climb out of the Pearl and up into the dark, the road curving back and forth through trees so tall I can’t see their tops. The wipers thump. The city lights drop away below us on the right.

“On Wednesday,” I say, “I was pouring well drinks in Fresno. Now I’m being driven into the woods by a demon at four in the morning.”

“When you say it like that.”

“How would you say it?”