The Foundling . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Page 5

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He caught the thought before it developed into panic. Nothing was wrong. Nothing had gone wrong during his last trip. His imagination was the trouble – he saw giants’ clubs and elven archers in his mind when he was gone. It was hard to shake memories of past giant raids. And they lived further from town than most.

A danger to these dogs is a danger to any human.

That thought decided him. He turned, signaling the dogs to stop. The last dog in the lineup was loosed from its harness and sent on its way with one instruction: “Home.” Stan needed no more than that – the dog wheeled and was out of sight almost before the word was spoken. Nearly seemed to know what he wanted before he knew he wanted it, these dogs. For good