Greta snapped out of her trance and managed to dodge at the last second, in an instinctive leap to the side. The dog, unable to brake at the speed it was coming, continued for a few yards before managing to stop.

  Then he returned, still panting, tongue out, eyes bright with excitement. He began to sniff her. He seemed friendly, so Greta crouched down to pet the shiny coat. She saw a man running with a leash in hand and understood everything. The animal had escaped. She gently held his collar until the owner arrived.

  "Jesus Christ in galoshes, one of these days this beast will give me a heart attack!" said the newcomer, bending over. He rested his hands on his bent knees, trying to catch his breath.

  "He's beautiful. I don't really know a lot about dog breeds, but he's so... different... What is he?"

  "He's a doodle. A mix of golden and poodle. The official name is goldendoodle, but whatever. Nobody ever knows what that is. Sounds like a cartoon character name, right? Here comes Doodle and Yogi Bear!"

  "Well, he does e look like a teddy bear!"

  "He does, but he's not worth a rotten egg. But someone thought crossing a big dog like the golden with a bipolar type like the poodle was a brilliant idea. Come on, Lenin. Time to put the leash on."

  She found the name funny.

  "Lenin... Did you choose it?"

  "Nah, I didn't choose the dog or the name. One day, a friend showed up at my door with the beast, said the owner had died and asked me to take care of him for a while. That was three years ago."

  "Wow... Did you try to advertise the dog for adoption?"

  "No, not really. I was afraid someone would be interested. Here, boy."

  The man was too funny. He must have been around sixty. His large blue eyes had the unmistakable gleam of a sharp mind. And the reddened nose suggested he descended from Italian immigrants. The gray hair remained only on the sides and back of his head, reminiscent of a Franciscan monk.

  "Well, young lady," he finally looked at her and made a long pause before continuing, "Thank you for holding Lenin for me."

  She thought the makeup didn't disguise as much as she'd hoped. The man was kind enough not to say anything.

  "If you're heading toward Praia Grande, we can offer company. I've heard the sand crabs are very hostile on this stretch of beach. We pose no risks. Lenin doesn't have fleas, I only have them from time to time."

  He was pleased to see her smile and waited for her answer.

  "I don't want to bother you guys. I'm just going to that kiosk up ahead."

  "Then let's go together. This fellow here needs to hydrate before we head home."

  The dog made her feel safe accepting the invitation. And the man had that air of honesty you see in small-town sheriffs in movies. They walked slowly, with the man appreciating the sea in the distance.

  Exhausted from the escape, the dog imitated the owner's relaxed pace.

  "Do you live around here?" she broke the silence.

  "Nope. We came to visit Lenin's owner."

  "That friend who didn't come back for the dog? I'm surprised you still talk to him."

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  She realized how hostile the comment had sounded and added:

  "Sorry... It's just that I love dogs, so I kind of disliked this friend of yours right away."

  "No problem! You see? It's just that I have no choice. My friend was advertised for adoption indeed. But no one was interested."

  She laughed out loud this time. When the kiosk appeared on the horizon, she regretted reaching the destination. The brief interaction had had an invigorating effect on her. It would be good to stretch the conversation for a while.

  Apparently, she wasn't the only one thinking that. When they reached the rustic wooden fence of the establishment, the man asked:

  "Can you keep an eye on this little troublemaker for me? I'm going to grab some water for him. While I'm at it, let me get you something for your help. What would you like?"

  "A Heineken, please."

  "OK, but here is the thing: I don't drink with strangers. You're going to have to tell me your name."

  "Greta." She didn't even try to hide another smile.

  "Very well, Miss Greta. You can wrap the leash around your arm, if you want. He's strong as an angry bull. Don't give the beast any liberties."

  Greta held Lenin's leash and stroked the dog's head, much calmer after the energy spent on the escape. The man soon returned with two cans of Heineken and a water not from the cooler. She watched as he took a plastic container from his shorts pocket and offered water to the animal. There was a thick gold wedding band on his left ring finger. She'd bet it was a happy marriage.

  When the animal was satisfied, the man poured the rest of the water into the sand and shook the container to dry it a bit before stuffing it back in his pocket. He sat at a table facing the sea and pushed the chair in front with his foot for her.

  The two drank in silence at first. He was the type of person whose presence, even if silent, was comforting. His phone vibrated with the theme from the movie Jaws. Hearing that so close to the sea made the choice even funnier. He shrugged.

  "I don't even need to look. It's my friend. I have a different theme for each contact."

  "I like the idea. It's practical. And it sounds perfect tonight."

  "It does indeed. But the ringtone was in self-defense. I did this after he told me he chose my favorite Kate Bush song to play when I call."

  "Wuthering Heights?"

  "Yes. I'll never learn to say that, it twists the tongue. What kind of psychopath decides to demote such a beautiful vocal to a fucking phone ringtone?"

  The funniest thing was that he didn't even laugh at the things he said. He had incredible energy.

  "And how can you say it? Were you good in English classes?" Lenin's owner wanted to know.

  "I teach literature. Fancy language is part of the job."

  He let out a reverent whistle upon hearing that. Then he asked if she enjoyed teaching.

  "I used to more. I think there comes a time for everyone when we think about what it would be like to do something else," she replied, without adding that she'd love to never set foot in the university where she met Valério again.

  "What would you like to do?" The man rested his head on his hand, waiting. The curiosity in his expression was genuine.

  "Write a book, I guess."

  "A mystery, right? No decent person can resist a good mystery novel."

  Greta laughed at the idea, although it was one of the genres she most liked to read.

  "No, nothing like that. I think about literary curiosities or something like that. Something light, that would democratize knowledge."

  "I'd read it. What's stopping you from writing?"

  She thought of her husband at first, of the times he told her that writing demanded a boldness she didn't have. Since the marriage was behind her, she didn't lie when she answered:

  "Nothing. One day... Who knows?"

  The man smiled, satisfied, and they toasted to that. For some time, they talked about how crowded the city got in summer. It was a shame to see him get up to leave.

  Stretching one arm forward, then the other, he announced it was time to go and wrapped Lenin's leash around his wrist. He thanked her again for the help and said goodbye.

  He'd started to walk away when, moments later, he changed his mind. He took his wallet from his pocket and offered her a card.

  "You know, young lady? Sometimes it seems like there's no way out and we're alone. But almost everything has a solution and we're never as alone as we think. As incredible as it seems, there are people who care. Really. Call if you need anything. Anything at all. Any time."

  Greta would never talk about what happened between her and her husband. For a moment, though, she considered telling him there was a dangerous guy in town, and that he'd kidnapped her. But then what? Would she also say the guy had freed her without doing anything?

  So she remained silent, and he turned to go his way. It was good he did: that way he wouldn't see her eyes fill with tears. She blinked very quickly to push them away and brought the card closer to the area lit by the nearest lamppost.

  INáCIO MANCINI

  Internal Affairs Chief

  Security Consultant

  In the end, he really was a sheriff, though not from a small town. And it was good to meet one of the good guys, for a change.