It was late when Betty finally had hunger enough to eat and strength enough to walk up and down the 1/2 block, from their house to the corner. She didn't feel exhausted the way you do when you've been running all day or chased a squirrel and ended up in a different town, but her body was beyond working and she stood at the foot of the bed, gently whimpering.
The man took the cone off and picked her up. She curled thankfully just behind the bent knees of the lady. The evening was cold but seemed distant somehow. For a while, she forgot about what happened that day, about sore spots and untrustworthy legs. She dreamed of birds and bits of meat, unguarded on the kitchen floor.
In one dream, Betty imagined that she was running through water, but her legs seemed to change. No longer strong and stiff and muscular, they were swaying with the water, flattening out and fanning out like paper-thin fins. The water seemed to be dissappearing and, just before it was all gone and her body flopped down, unable to support itself, she woke up to the sound of an alarm beeping.
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