Page 124 of Sacrifice
Around 1:30, the dogs start getting antsy.
They know the schedule by now, know company's coming.
Luna stations herself by the door while Rex paces between the kitchen and living room.
Odin remains sprawled but his eyes are open, tracking.
"Early warning system activated," Elfe observes.
Sure enough, ten minutes later we hear Soren's car.
The dogs explode into welcoming barks, tails creating hurricane-force winds.
Emil has to physically hold Rex back from launching himself at the door.
"Easy, boy. Let him get inside first."
Soren enters carrying two twelve-packs and immediately gets mobbed.
He drops to his knees, accepting dog kisses with the patience of someone who grew up with animals.
"Missed you too, beasts." He looks up, grinning. "Hey, family."
"Hey, yourself." I hug him once the dogs allow it. He does look taller, broader through the shoulders. College is agreeing with him. "How's school?"
"Good. Great, actually. Made the Dean's list again."
"Show off," Elfe says, but hugs him too. "Your sister's been insufferable, by the way. She outshot Tor at the range and won't shut up about it."
"No shit? Saga the sharpshooter. Who knew?"
"Emil knew," I say. "He's been training me. Turns out I have good hand-eye coordination."
"All those years of volleyball finally paid off."
Emil appears, having heard the commotion.
They do that man-hug thing, all back slaps and gruffness.
"Thanks for the beer," Emil says, examining the labels. "Been wanting to try this."
"Figured. Microbrewery near campus, supposed to be excellent." Soren glances around, noting the subtle changes since his last visit. More of Elfe's art on the walls, a new dog bed in the corner, the way we've all marked this space as ours. "Place looks good. Homey."
"It is home," I say simply.
"Good." Something passes over his face—relief, maybe. He's been worried about me since everything went down, though he tries to hide it. "Mom and Dad coming?"
"Should be here any minute. Mom's bringing her potato salad even though I told her we have enough food."
"She wouldn't be Mom if she didn't."
The dogs alert again, and sure enough, my parents arrive bearing not just potato salad but also rolls, a pie, and what looks like half a grocery store.
"I brought a few things," Mom says, which is her way of saying she cooked for an army.
"A few things," Dad echoes, arms full of bags. "Gwen, we could feed the entire club with this."
"Well, you never know who might stop by," Mom defends.
