First of all let me say, Monty is one of those dogs you think is chill and then she goes and does something cracked like eat all your shoes. She’s a mystery. She’s a quagmire. She’s a golden retriever. And everyone loves a golden retriever. My guess is that maybe there were a few parents who came to say hello and they slipped her a little hot dog butt.

Or two, or three. Or ten.

So she trotted into the house when we got home, sat down on the rug, relaxed and content, and then she barfed up a stream of vomit that settled into the size of a small wading pool. Just as Lucy walked into the door.

So we didn’t really have time to talk about anything other than dog vomit and the fact that we were basically going to have to burn the rug it was deposited on. We spent all night either walking Monty outside and trying to get her to drink water or scrubbing and rinsing.

So I didn’t have a chance to tell Lucy and Millie about my conversation with Mr. Spencer. We just lit as many lavender and citrus candles as we could find, and I collapsed on the couch with a newly shampooed, still-wet dog. I promptly passed out into a dream about a sea of tall grass.

I didn’t hear a thing. Not a truck. Not a whisper. I didn’t hear anything until I looked out the window and saw Greenville had left us a message.

TEN

GO HOME, DYKE.

That’s what they wrote.

Actually, I think they wrote something else, but then they maybe weren’t sure on the spelling, because there was some stuff crossed out. But then they wrote GO HOME, DYKE.

In black spray paint.

On our front lawn.

Luckily I was the first person to spot it out the window, and I tore outside as quietly as possible, speed-calling Berry as I zipped out the front door and onto the grass. The paint was only just dry, sticky on the individual blades of grass, which were already wet with dew. The black rubbed off on my fingers as I listened to the phone click and Berry’s sleepy voice. “WHA? ANNE? What time is—”

“BERRY! I need you to do me a favor, like FAST. Do you have spray paint?”

“Have? What?” I could hear Berry getting out of bed, thumping around her room. “What do you need spray paint for at. . .”

There was a pause. A rustling sound.

“Holy cow, seven a.m.!”

“Berry—”

There was a thump. “Wait. Are you okay?”

“I need to paint over something,” I said, looking back at what I hoped was my still-sleeping house. “Like. Now. Or I need to like blowtorch. But I think paint—”

“I’m coming now.”