Daddy worked many jobs, but Daddy liked his night job best. He liked shooting stray dogs in the streets.

Every morning he swept the roads, painted dull pavements, and unclogged jammed gutters in Victoria Colony, and every evening he slung the shotgun over his shoulder, left the servant quarters, and went into the dimming alleys looking for dogs. He told me it was okay to hunt them down because they were feral. Borderline mad. They were no one’s anything. They had no mothers. No one wailed for them after they were gone. They were stray, and stray things did not carry a soul.

When November arrived, I dropped out of school and began accompanying my father to work. My mother was furious. She had been dreaming of a better future for me. One where I had a proper job. She did not want me raking

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