I wake to the sound of barking. Not loud, not panicked—just a few sharp woofs, like Mellow is reminding the world that morning has arrived. A moment later, I feel her paws hop off the couch. Then the soft thud of her nails padding across the floor.
It takes me a second to register where I am. The air smells clean and faintly like yesterday's dinner. The blanket around me is still warm. The sky outside the window is barely touched with pale gray, the soft, cold kind of dawn that makes you want to crawl deeper under the covers.
But Mellow is determined. I sit up, groggy, and glance at the clock on the guest room wall.
5.40 AM. Wow.
I rub my face and stretch my arms over my head with a groan, then smooth the blanket and make the bed look almost like I hadn't just drooled into it for seven hours straight—no, I don't drool in my sleep. When I step into the hallway, blinking against the hallway light, I see him.
