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Summary
Cobb nods his chin at the distance. “Your pals are out there somewhere yippin’ up a storm. You lose ‘em?”
He swigs his beer and watches the coyote watch him, as though taking the time to consider the option. It licks its chops.
Cobb examines the burning end of his cigarette. “What do you think I am, some kind of enabler?”
The coyote gives a sharp sniff and bounds off into the chaparral. Cobb smiles to himself. He’ll call it good luck.