Eli first saw him up close when a guard sent him to the kennels to clean cages. The smell hit him like a memory from another life. Dog, straw, wet wood, hot filth. Jasper was lying in the shade, and raised his head with that slow, almost weary dignity animals have when they owe nothing to anyone.

“Don’t put a hand on him unless I tell you,” said the guard, Doyle, chewing tobacco. “He ain’t a pet. He’s staff.”