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gathering steam before switching back up and around and doing it again. He did that twice
more, swooping gracefully, before he dropped down into the flat and ran toward the pile of
granite. The scent from the rubble pile had drifted over to the sand dune and crawled up
it—Solo was so experienced that he knew what had happened. He'd used those easy swoops
to reject the dune as the source of the scent.
Solo only occasionally trained in rubble, and his hot-dog antics on the sand dune worried
me. I watched as he stepped up, then up again, on the pieces of granite. I stood well back so
he couldn't hear any unconscious gasps on my part as he gingerly climbed the uneven terrain.
Mike, standing behind me, said in a low voice, “I tested it.”
Solo tested it, too, moving deliberately, sticking his head into the black holes where the
scent swirled, moving up, over, back. Then he froze at one hole, turned his head back to stare
at me, his eyes glowing amber in the headlights. He slowly backed down off the rubble so he
could give his final alert.
“Sweet,” Mike said. “Sweet.”
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