Rosalia found the dog right around mid-afternoon a couple miles past the iron scorpion. The studio was in the garage stall of an old service station. The doors were open and the space was full of scrap metal and half-finished sculptures. Everything smelled like burnt iron. It was a hundred and five but he was leaning over welding one chunk of scrap to another. She didn’t want to shout over the hiss of the torch so she wai...
