The sun was low, casting long shadows over the landfill. Wolf lay there, eyes wide, trembling. His muzzle was taped shut, his legs bound tight with rough cord. He couldn’t cry out. He couldn’t move. All he could do was look up, his brown eyes searching for something—someone—to see him. His breath came in shallow … Read more

In a dimly lit dining room in Miami, a waiter places a course of hamachi crudo in front of Travis Kelce. “We don’t get fresh fish like this in Kansas City,” Kelce says. We are sitting in a horseshoe-shaped booth, and Kelce’s voice can just be heard over that of the young woman on the restaurant’s stage, covering Sade’s “The Sweetest Taboo” and other quiet storm standards. Kelce did not encounter fish like this—raw, finely sliced, opalescent—growing up in Cleveland Heights, Ohio, either. “Red Lobster was the nice spot for us to go to as a kid. We used to go there, see the lobsters in the tank like we were at an aquarium. We put on pants for that shit.”