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Harry was confused.

This wasn’t a new feeling. In fact, confusion was a feeling Harry knew very well. But this time, it was worse than usual.

He’d found a note slipped under his office door:

“The dog wasn’t the only one buried in the park.”

What did that mean? What dog? What park? Harry had no idea. The best thing to do, he figured, was to visit his closest confidant — someone who might make sense of it. Before long, he found himself at Mustafo Bob’s underpass.

“The dog?” Bob asked.

Harry nodded and handed him the note. Bob examined it closely, then grinned.
“Harry,” he said in his slow drawl — he always drawled out Harry’s name when he thought he was being clever — “Harry, someone has confused you with someone else.”

This did nothing to help Harry’s confusion. He could only manage a single word.
“What?”

Bob passed the note back. “The dog,” he explained, “is not a canine, but a hot dog. A foodstuff.” He inhaled deeply and licked his lips — hot dogs were Bob’s favourite food. “You know the vendor down on Market Street?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. “She buries her spoiled hot dogs. Or dogs. Says it’s more ecologically friendly than throwing them out.”

Harry blinked. Scowled. Frowned. He was no less confused than before.
“So… what else was buried?” he asked. “And why isn’t this note for me?”

Bob took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and replied in a fatherly tone,
“I don’t know, Harry. But I’m hungry. Let’s go get a hot dog.”

Harry looked at him — or maybe through him. He didn’t even know anymore. He just wanted to stop being confused.

Right now, the best way to stop being confused was to forget this note ever existed.

He nodded, tossed the note into Bob’s fire drum, and turned.
“Let’s go get a hot dog,” he agreed.