by Jimy Valenti
I got that first call at work. I’m a glazier. Been at Walker Glass thirteen years now. I was on my way to a house call, some rich couple with no kids wanted a dog door on the north side of town. I’d been out there three times already.
“Dad,” her voice so low through the phone, I took the call out the shop’s back door. The morning sun over Mount Blanca blinding.
“What’s the matter?”
“I’ve been bit. They say I need to go to the hospital.”
“Something bit you?” The noise of the shop through the open garage door. I pressed the cordless firm against my ear and plugged the other with my finger. “Did you say bit?”
“A dog bite.” She sounded so embarrassed. Like it was her fault. Like somebody was judging her there in the room.
“At school?” I asked. “There was a dog at school that bit you?”
“The Vegas’ dog,” she said. “Out at the bus stop.”
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