pelusa
Saturday. The doorbell rang at four. A woman and a girl of about nine, holding one of my flyers, faded and torn, from a lamppost near the park. It had been up for eleven months.
Paralelo ran out and jumped all over the girl.
His name is Pelusa. Her name is Valentina. He got out of their car at a petrol station in August when they were moving house, and they looked for weeks on the wrong side of the city.
Valentina cried, Carmen cried, I went to get his red collar and his bowl and came back with neither because I couldn't find them, they were exactly where they always are.
They took him home. The house is very quiet.