When we arrive at the Bogs, it’s eerily quiet. It’s mid-day. The pups and young folk should be at the Academy and some adults will be downtown, but there’s always males like Uncle Dewey sleeping off a drunk or females like Drona sweeping out the trailers or minding the babes in arms.

There’s no one. It feels like the Empties. Prickles creep up my spine.

“What happened?” I whisper to Preston. We’re standing at an intersection of the boards near Essie’s.

He sniffs the air. “They haven’t been gone long. Less than an hour I’d say.”

We return to shore, stopping in the middle of the path. It’s a sunny,...