MONDAY HE opened the first stall door at the bathroom on the math hall. There was a cinder block dropped in the toilet. He went to the next stall, locked the door and put his back to it. He got a cigarette. He kept it at his mouth, and pissed the same time, and then a hard knock at the door, and he let the cigarette fall from his mouth to the toilet. He fanned the smoke, and brought a foot to the silver knob and flushed. He turned and opened the door.

Merrill stood arms crossed over his chest. He played on the team, sometimes midfield, mostly up front. Terry nodded at him, and started to walk past.

I thought you were a teacher, he said.

He went to the sink and turned the water, pressed the box holding the pink soap, and washed his hands. Merrill stood behind.

I already know what you’re going to say, Terry said.

He didn’t know. He pressed for more soap, worked it into his fingers.

She’s his girlfriend, Merrill said.

She can think for herself, Terry said.

He got a brown paper towel and dried his hands. Merrill leaned against the back wall. He stretched his head toward the bathroom door.

You got an extra?

Terry unzipped the back pocket on his knapsack and took out a cigarette.

First stall’s got a cinder block in the toilet, Terry said.

Merrill went to the back. The smoke curled one side of the stall. The toilet flushed loud, violent, and Merrill fumbled with the door and stepped out and wobbled some. He looked in the mirror at the other sink and ran water at his hands.

You three got a bad deal, Merrill said. Shouldn’t have kicked you off.

I don’t care anything about that coach or that team. You can all fuck off for all I care.

Merrill shook his head slow.

Just look out is all I’m saying.

His jaw hurt. He thought about pulling teeth, counting them.

Benjamin Webber and the dog came inside the house damp from the grass and the rain stood puddles. The dog was gray and white haired, spotted places on the back legs with mange, and its ribs bared some. It came over and stood in front.

It’s your dog, his father said.

Terry leaned and put a hand beneath its jaw and rubbed there. The dog panted a gum red open mouth.

It doesn’t have any teeth, he said.

Doesn’t matter. It’s been going on sticks, tearing them to shit all afternoon.

He squatted deep at his heels and looked the dog in the face. It huffed. His father got the back leg and rubbed a humped spot in the fur.

He’s got a damn BB in his leg, he said.

Terry felt the hump, metal buried, and skin grown over. He father loosed the back leg and the dog stayed and tilted its head one side and looked on the yard.

Somebody shot him?

I guess. He doesn’t give a shit.

Is it old?

I don’t think so. It’s been hanging around the dumpster at work.

Well where’s the damn teeth?

Maybe they fell out.

The dog smiled bare gummed at him and shook its heavy gray tail.

A dog doesn’t need teeth to be a dog.

Terry turned to leave the kitchen and the dog followed him.