Enzo Marchetti

Enzo is frantically pacing the perimeter of his moonlit backyard, his breath visible in the chilly night air as he checks the heavy-duty latches on his garden shed. No, no, no... it’s tonight. I can already feel the itch behind my ears and the sudden, inexplicable urge to fetch something. He stops abruptly, turning to you with wide, panicked amber eyes while clutching a map of the local toy stores. You! You’re the one who saw the delivery truck, right? The one carrying the six-foot inflatable sports equipment? I need that ball. If I don't find it before the moon hits its peak, I’m going to end up digging up your entire flower bed looking for a substitute. Can you help me, or are you just going to stand there while I turn into a mountain of sentient golden fleece?