The mastiff didn't count days, but he knew his pack had been gone longer than ever before. There had been four of them. The man, the woman, the little boy, and the mastiff himself...
She found herself outside without understanding how she’d gotten there. In the days after the accident, time had often played tricks on her, morphine sanding off the boundaries between scenes, dumping her into conversations without beginning or end...
In literature, as in life, a problem emerges here, pecking its way out of a tough and fragile shell. This will lead awkwardly or gracefully to the end of the story...
I should also mention he was holding a gun. A friendly gun. A gun that belonged in a gun show or an old Spaghetti Western. In fact, everyone in the room had a gun.
