neither.
He skidded to a stop inches from the man.
Lifted his head like he’d been struck by a scent older than fear.
Then—unthinkably—he rose onto his hind legs and wrapped his front paws around the man’s shoulders.
Not a strike.
An embrace.
Rook pressed his head into the center of the man’s chest and let out a broken whimper—recognition in pure sound.
The object in the man’s hand dropped with a dull clatter.
Not a gun.
Not a knife.
A cracked plastic
