So the first thing I need to do is get some strength back. And when I’m no longer dizzy with weakness, as soon as it’s safe for me to drive, I’ll get in the car and go find help. The hospital, maybe. Or the fire station, which is only a few streets away. In the meantime, I’ll stuff rags under the doors of the bedrooms and air out the rest of the house as best I can.

On impulse, I unsnap Mrs. Carby’s handbag and root through it for her wallet. It opens easily to a state-issued ID. Not a driver’s license; Mrs. Carby stopped driving years ago.

Suyin Carby, it says. Five feet seven inches, wears corrective eyewear, white hair though the photo shows a few remaining strands of black. Born January 13. She’s a beautiful old lady with high cheekbones, a single age spot under the corner of her left eye, and a smile that manages to be joyous without showing her teeth. She was born to Chinese immigrants, she told Ryan and me one afternoon over cookies, and she still speaks fluent Mandarin. According to this card, she’s in her eighties now. I’m not sure why, but I never realized she was quite so old. I slip the ID into my pocket.

I open the cupboard that I know contains Emmaline’s dog food. Only three cans left. I grab my coat from the windowsill and shake it out, wary of leftover glass shards. Crows flap away and hop down the hallway toward the bedroom. I put the coat on and shove the dog food into my pockets. I pat my chest and say, “Up-up, Emmaline,” and she launches into my arms.

She’s heavy, maybe too heavy for my weakened state, but we only have to make it as far as next door.

“Don’t worry, girl, you’re not alone anymore,” I tell her as I open the door and step back into the light. And it’s true. I suddenly love this little dog so much my heart hurts to bursting. “We’ll be okay. We have a plan, sort of.”

I don’t bother closing the door behind me, and I don’t look back.

March 14

REMEMBERING MY OWN REBELLIOUS STOMACH, I FEED EMMALINE in strategic intervals. She scarfs everything so fast it’s like it disappears by magic. She needs a bath desperately, but I don’t have the energy. I eat the second banana, drain another glass of water, then—reluctant to go back upstairs—I curl up on the couch and throw the afghan over my shoulders. I’m barely aware of Emmaline’s weight settling in the crook of my belly before I drift off.