The dog moving forward didn't affect Mickey at all and he held his ground, looking at it. He was a warrior. A dog wasn't going to bother him. "I'm not afraid of him. He's doing his job," he said, eyes on the dog. "He just needs to understand that I'm not a threat."
He looked at the boy again, taking in the clothes, the dirt, the mess and knowing the problem ran deeper than the surface. He could see it, lighting up the boy's skin where things were ruined, broken, stunted. "You don't look okay. What's your name?"