The Hanging Hill

49

Zack had taken Zipper out for a walk right before he and Judy had called it a night and gone to bed—Judy to her room, Zack and Zipper to his.

Now Zipper was nudging Zack with his snout.

Apparently, the dog needed to go out again.

“Mmmfff.” Zack buried his head under his pillow.

Zipper kept nuzzling, burrowing into the blankets, and prying the pillow away from Zack’s face so he could lick it.

“What time is it?” Zack mumbled.

Rubbing his eyes and sitting up, Zack found his watch on the bedside table.

3:55 a.m.

Zipper nose-nudged him, poked him in the ribs.

“Okay, Zip. I get it.”

Too bad they weren’t at home, where Zack could just open the back door and let Zip out into the yard to do his business. Here in Chatham, if Zipper had to take another pee, Zack had to walk him down five floors to the lobby.

Zack put on his glasses. Slipped on his bathrobe and sneakers. He didn’t bother tying up the laces.

“Come on, Zip.” Yawning, he snapped the leash onto the dog’s collar.

They headed out the door, moved down the hallway past Judy’s room. Zack shuffled while Zipper padded. They made their way to the elevator. Zack pressed the call button, heard its motor whir.

“At least the elevator’s running,” Zack said through another jaw-stretcher of a yawn.

Zipper wagged his tail and smiled up at him: a dog’s way of saying “sorry to wake you up, pal” and “thanks for taking me out.”

“No problem-o,” said Zack, bending down to scratch Zipper behind the ears. “Just hold it until we get outside, okay?” Zack definitely did not want to deal with any grief from that scraggly old janitor if Zipper had an accident.

The elevator squealed to a stop. Zack slid open the accordion cage door.

Someone was inside. Weeping.

“Are you a demon?” she asked.