Stopping at the dog, he scrubs its head with his fingers. “Good guy,” he says.

“Is that a pit bull?” I call in disbelief.

“Could be,” he calls back in the deep voice that I know. I want to hear amusement. But no. It’s challenge.

“Do you own it?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Why a pit bull? Because no one else wants him and he needs a home. Pit bulls are the most misunderstood dogs.”

“Tell that to the mother whose three-year-old was mauled by one,” I say. A story to that effect had recently appeared on my Twitter feed. It wasn’t the first I had read.

“If a dog is trained to fight, it fights,” he states. “If a child rushes it, it gets scared. When an animal, any animal, is threatened, it defends itself. I repeat. Misunderstood.” He has the gall to approach me on the dock, and I continue to hold still. Not that I think he’ll attack. John Sabathian is a pacifist. Physical abuse was never our problem. Our problem—my problem—is that my legs won’t work, because I don’t know what to do. Stay, leave, walk, run, listen, love, argue, reason, accuse? The past contained all that and more. But this isn’t the past.

He comes close enough so that I have to tip my head up. His face is older, its lower third sporting a stylishly thin, half-scruff beard. Though his hair is shorter, hitting his nape rather than his shoulders, it is the same every-shade-of-chestnut-give-or-take that it was. The grooves between his brows have deepened, no surprise there. He was always a frowner. That said, he looks good.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he says in a lower voice now that he is close.

I try to think up something witty about command performances or wild accusations or for-old-time’s-sake corn, but nothing seems right. I simply say, “I didn’t either.”

“Why did you?”

“A gun can be lethal.” Like a pit bull, I think, with a pointed look at the dog. But the creature, which has followed Jack onto the dock, is looking up at him with adoration. Clearly, it doesn’t judge me to be a threat. It doesn’t even look my way when I maneuver my legs around and stand.

Pulling a treat from his pocket, Jack rewards it for its docility. The dog sits and chews in a surprisingly well-mannered way, then closes its mouth, and turns placid eyes on me. I suppose it can’t help being jowly. Or having bloodshot eyes or ears that hang like limp lettuce.

“Is this your only dog?” I ask, thinking that if he’s a vet, he may have a houseful.

“Right now. They come and go.”

“Get adopted?”

“Or die. Some of my clients can’t deal when their pets get sick. I can.”

“Are you a shelter?”