Luke pulled up in front of the old Miller farmhouse, the Christmas lights that were lining the roofline sparkling in the snow covering the landscape. It looked so festive, so Christmassy and shit.

So unlike his own house.

Sticks jumped down from the bed of the truck, his stocky Labrador body navigating the snowdrifts with ease. Luke and Stick’s noses wiggled in the crisp night air, breathing in the smell of…was that pot roast?

God, it’s gonna be nice to eat Carmelita’s cooking this weekend. I might end up as fat as Stetson when she’s done with me! Oh, but it’ll be worth it.

He knocked once and then, brushing his feet on the welcome mat, pushed open the front door. “I’m here,” he called out. Sticks shook the snow off his fur and then tro...

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