I'm treading water in my thoughts.
"My dog," I begin to moan. My head soaks through my hands now, and my words are quickly drowned. I've already forgotten that it was the Doorman who'd previously brought me back into consciousness.
"He needs a wash," one of them says.
"Is he okay?" Quiet words. Scared words that break and shiver and fight to keep themselves in the air.
"And a flea collar."
"Fleas?" I respond. My voice is scattered on the floor. "He hasn't got fleas...."
"Well what are these?"
One of the men grabs me gently by the hair and lifts my head to see. He shows me a forearm full of insect bites.
"They're not from the Doorman," I say, wondering why in God's name I would choose to be obstinate in this situation.
"The Doorman?" Like Sophie, the intruders are curious about his name.
I confirm it with a nod of my head, which, surprisingly, wakes me up a little. "Look--fleas or no fleas--is he okay or not?"
The two of them look at each other now, and one takes another bite from his pie.
"Daryl," he says casually, "I'm not sure if I like Ed's tone just this minute. It's..." He struggles for the appropriate word. "It's..."
"Sour?"
"No."
"Unappreciative?"
"No." But he's got it now. "Worse--it's disrespectful." The last word is spoken with quiet, complete disdain. He looks directly at me as he speaks. His eyes warn me more than his mouth. It makes me suggest internally that I should break down and cry, begging them not to hurt my coffee-drinking dog.
"Please," I finally say, "you didn't hurt him, did you?"
The hard eyes flatten.
He shakes his head.
"No."
The best word I've ever heard.
"He's a useless guard dog, though," says the one still finishing his pie, dunking it in the sauce on his plate. "Do you know he slept through us breaking in?"
"I don't doubt it."
"Even when he woke up he only came in here wanting food."
"And?"
"We gave him a pie."
"Cooked or frozen?"
"Cooked, Ed!" He seems offended. "We're not savages, you know. In fact, we're quite civilized."
"Are there any left for me?"