#22: The Shoemaker

Really, Gus didn't mind sleeping with the dogs. They were, for the most part, courteous, and, essentially, just as clean as anyone else in the household.

The oldest dog, Brik, was really the only one that seemed to care for him. His hair was matted in some places and falling off in others, brown, gray, dingy. If the man hit the boy, Brik would growl until he was hit, as well. The man supposed that the only reason Brik didn't scurry away with the other dogs was because he was so old.

On this night, Gus was lying in the kitchen, his head on a pile of straw that he had taken from the outside. Brik was next to him, huffing out hot air. Gus liked sleeping in the kitchen because the opening in the roof above the stove let him see the stars. The shoemaker had been there that day, traveling from the woods. He spent all day in the village. Near the bedroom was a row of new shoes for a few of the other children and the man's repaired shoes. Gus could smell the leather.

"Brik," the boy said. "The shoemaker showed me where he walked from." His voice was a whisper. "I think he meant us to follow."

When the snores were deep from the bedroom, Gus stood and walked, slowly, to a new pair of shoes and picked it up.

Brik didn't follow him out the door.

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