Putney rubbed a liver-spotted hand across his jaw. His eyes were a peerless clear blue. Griffin had read Olan's jottings, theorizing about why Gunderson's Horn would exist as an entry and exit spot between realities. Olan posited eyes as bright and clear as Putney's could see into all the realities. They just hooded all that extra-dimensional goodness from the brain. Packed the information overload up into crates and stacked them deep into the shadows. Otherwise, glory upon glory going off like a fireworks show without end, Putney would be reduced to a gibbering drooling idiot.
"I don't know about coming to see me," said Putney. "Think your friend liked people about as much as I like going to the toilet. Tell you this though, he liked Cody."
At the sound of his name, the Australian sheepdog mix barked, picked up his overly soiled tennis ball of choice, and ears perked, studied the two men, trying to determine which was the more likely to step up and huck the ball the length of Putney's fenced in property.
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