Two days later, and Mama’s still not home. Called again on the evening of the third day just to say that Harley’s got a job he’s doing, but when he’s done he’ll sit down and go over the house situation. In the meantime she’s “hanging out” there.

Atlanta doesn’t say anything about the money from Jenny.

For now, she sits in the screened-in porch. Nobody’s come for her or the dog. The first fireflies of the night flicker to life. Cicadas complain in a curtain of sound. The dog rests his head on her lap and makes a low, satisfied whine in the back of his throat.

She says that out loud: “The dog.”

Last few days she’s been feeding him whatever she could find around the house. Out-of-date Ritz crackers. Generic-brand Cheerios (“Ringy-Os”). Ramen noodles. Microwave pizza. He ate it all. No complaints. Of course, that means she’s damn near out of food. Atlanta makes a mental note that tomorrow will be a food-shopping trip. Last year Mama was able to get food stamps, but they changed the rules, and now if you’re under sixty and you have too many assets—like, say, a falling-down old farmhouse—then no food stamps or assistance for you.

But she’ll be okay. She’s still got some of Jenny’s money left—though the rest sure would be nice. She thinks that tomorrow could be a kick-ass shopping trip. Won’t have to go to the Amish store for off-brand or expired food. She can hit the Giant instead, pick up some fancy cheese and lunchmeat, some soft white bread. She’ll still have enough for a month or two of the mortgage, help stave off the foreclosure a little while longer.

“I guess I ought to buy you some proper dog food,” she tells the dog.

The dog looks up at her from his resting place on her lap. His eyes move, but not his head. His jowls are pooled underneath him like bedsheets.

“Don’t get excited. It’s not gonna be, like, some kinda fancy organic food or anything. We’re talking Alpo, here. And don’t forget: you’re still not my dog.”

The dog closes his eyes.