“That’s my family’s trailer, coming up on the left.” Rex’s voice sounded relieved at finding a convenient way to avoid answering Coach Dan’s question.
The sedan slowed. Coach Dan flicked his turn signal up, click-CLICK, click-CLICK. The long yellow cones from the headlights illuminated the front of a trailer, rust visible in spots on the battleship gray siding. Weathered wooden steps lead up to the narrow front door. A small plywood board, wrapped in plastic and attached to the door with gray duct tape, replaced what appeared to have been a window.
Immediately in front of the steps, two tiny daggers of light suddenly illuminated, followed immediately by the sound of loud barking. As the sedan approached and turned into a level dirt area in front of the trailer, the dog charged, barking crazily. It was a German Shepherd, the largest Bernie had ever seen, its head taller than the sedan’s headlights, its snarling snout snapping aggressively at the front fender as it passed.
“Jesus,” Bernie muttered reflexively, and was immediately ashamed. He glanced quickly at Rex, who made no sign that he had heard. But Rex was not one to object, even to direct insults, so Bernie could not be sure.