I feel the tug of shadows like a coat pulling close against the wind or the sighing of a door opened by a breeze. He has his own disguise on today, a subtle sort of variation of pepper-flecked fur. The smallest of disguises are often the most elegant, and I smile as he puts his head on my knee.

"Good boy you are," I say, stroking his head. There is a slight lilt to my voice, an accent hard to place. "The good boy always comes home." I call out to the barman. "A dish of water for my friend, friend. And a shot of whisky in it, if you please." The barman does not like this suggestion, and I smile at him, corners of my bright eyes crinkling, small mouth stretching into something friendly. The kind of smile to trick men into thinking I am a good old man, after all. "He's a strong dog, my Rollo," I say. The name amuses me, and the meaning is apt. Famous wolf. The barman brings the dish and I ask him his name, although I know it. "Thomas," I say. "The doubter, you are. Apt, apt." I smile at him and set a coin on the table for the whisky.