That flash of teeth gets his hackles up, gets his upper lip to curl subtly beneath the shadow of his day-old stubble. If he were one of his own dogs, he'd be trying to split himself off from the rest of the pack, give himself a chance to run off his sudden fearful, restless energy. Fear, and overstimulation--that's when even the dog with the gentlest nature will bite.

Will isn't sure he ever had a gentle nature, but he is sure he doesn't have one anymore. He smacks his fist down on the table, rattling the crockery, and tells himself he doesn't see the looks thrown his way from others in the boarding house.

"Or something," he snaps back. Then he pushes himself up from his chair and grabs his coat, hauling it on so fast that he misses fitting his arm through one of the sleeves once, twice, but finally gets it on the third try. He's seconds away from making a speedy break for the front door.