Sumo's hackles rise at the same moment an alert pings in the corner of Connor's vision. A noise from the backyard, stomping footsteps and muttered voices where there should be only silence.

The house is quiet. Hank sleeps in his room; Sumo was until a moment ago a warm weight pressed against Connor's chest. Now, his fur bristles and his teeth flash.

(Connor admires dogs. They're so quick to understand and react, even without analytic software. And he especially admires Sumo.)

"Come on, boy," he whispers, moving to crouch below the back window. They won't even need to wake Hank.