Gingerly, I rise from the toilet and test my weight against it. Not bad. Then again, I’ve just discovered that everything is “not bad” compared to pouring alcohol onto an open wound.

Emmaline stretches up to put her forepaws on my thigh. I lean over and let her lap at my cheek as I bury my hands in her thick ruff. “I should take you with me when I go outside, Emmy,” I tell her. “I don’t think that dog would have attacked both of us together.”

I straighten, thinking hard. Actually, it shouldn’t have attacked me at all. At six-foot-three, I’m the tallest girl in my school by far. I’ve always been on the willowy side, but my height alone should have been a deterrent.

Maybe it identified me as weak. Sickly.

“You and me, Emmy, we’ve got to get healthy. It needs to be our first priority.”

March 17

IN THE MORNING, I LET EMMALINE INTO THE BACKYARD FOR A POTTY. I LISTEN TO THE world around me as she does her business, hoping for the sound of a motor, music, talking, anything. But there is only the caw of birds, the flapping of wings, and the buzz of insects. The whole neighborhood smells now. It’s like a festering swamp—motionless and muggy and sickly sweet. As soon as Emmaline is done, I hurry us back inside and spray the downstairs with pine-scented air freshener.

I take stock of my food and water options. I have lots of canned food: tuna, refried beans, peaches in light syrup, stewed tomatoes (ugh), crushed pineapple, tons of soup, and creamed corn (double ugh). I also have two boxes of Wheat Flakes cereal, which I’ll have to eat without milk, two loaves of bread, peanut butter, honey, two boxes of macaroni and cheese, one and half boxes of granola bars, a can of sour cream and onion Pringles (my mom always kept one in the house for Shawntelle), a jar of lightly salted peanuts, a six-pack of Fruity Juicy boxes (orange flavored—Ryan’s favorite), three bottled waters, a bag of long grain brown rice, corn chips, and a sealed pack of flour tortillas.

Easy on the salt before the big game, Coach D always said. I decide to forego eating soup or macaroni and cheese or anything with huge amounts of sodium, even though they’d be easy enough to cook up on the woodstove. Until my body is fully hydrated and recovered, I shouldn’t risk it. The canned meat would provide protein, but I maybe I should save that for my dog.

So I make myself a peanut-butter-and-honey sandwich for breakfast, which is wonderful. I decide it’s the most wonderful breakfast I’ve ever had. Emmaline thinks so too. I drop a large dollop of peanut butter on top of her left paw and laugh while she spends the next several minutes happily at war with the sticky stuff.