“Casper, she said someone has to hold your leash.”The dog barked.Then he dipped his head, picked up the end of the leash in his mouth, and trotted after his master.”

“He believes that this man has looped a bit of the thread-leash through a corner of his soul.”

“a pockmarked boy with a scraggy ponytail and four tiny rings in his right ear leaned against the wall of the armory, holding his dog on a leash, a sign hanging from his neck: PLEASE FEEL FREE TO PET MY DOG. IT MAY MAKE YOU FEEL BETTER.”

“You cast another bewildered look at the books around you (or, rather: it was the books that looked at you, with the bewildered gaze of dogs who, from their cages in the city pound, see a former companion go off on the leash of his master, come to rescue him)”

“First,” he said, coming behind me and placing his hands on the counter, just outside of mine, “choose your tomato.” He dipped his head so his mouth was at my ear. His breath was warm, tickling my skin. “Good. Now pick up the knife.”“Does the chef always stand this close?” I asked, not sure if I liked or feared the flutter his closeness caused inside me.“When he’s revealing culinary secrets, yes.”

“Never let your fiend off his leash unless there's lots of room to run (and no people around).”