A stray collie-mix lives under Barry's metal shed—he trucked her home from the strip mall and lets her fend for herself. Last winter, she bore a litter. Barry set a plywood board over
one that wandered out and froze. Brin brought the rest inside and kept them in his closet—it's warmed by the water heater and a crude plastic skylight the landlord cut into the slanted ceiling in
the early 70s. Brin built cardboard walls and a nest of papers and let the mother in and out of the front door as she pleased. Those weeks, Brin came home running upstairs shouting in a high
voice, "Mo mo's! Mo mo's!"—the name he'd given all six. They answered squealing, their clouded eyes looking for his shape, and me laughing, watching them play, leaning under the cross-beam of his doorway.