Eli jumped when the massive black shape of Vic's dog brushed by him. Dol had inky fur and the spindly grace of a great dane. Grace was a funny word to put with Dol, a beast whose tail fell off whenever he got excited and wagged it too hard (it had never stuck firmly after being lopped cleanly off once by Lena). But he was graced, in a way.
Vic trailed a tapered finger down Dol’s snout, tapping his nose absently. The dog didn’t seem to mind. His tail swished side to side along the concrete floor. Vic preferred concrete spaces, because the screams bounced around pleasantly without alarming anyone who might be passing by on the other side.
“Who’s my little frankenpuppy?” cooed Sydney, rubbing Dol’s ears.
A long white scar ran like a zipper down Dol’s stomach.Most people changed. Whenever Sydney woke someone from the dead, they always seemed a little…vapid. But not Dol. Dol had been brought back six times, and he was always Dol.
"He looks like he's been hit by a truck," scoffed Eli.
"He has," said Vic.