Whitey sits, panting. Atlanta waves Shane off. “I’m not keepin’ him. I’m just . . . holding onto him until this storm blows over. That’s all. I don’t want a dog.”

“Did you call a shelter or anything?”

“No, not yet. And I can’t take him to a shelter, anyway. He’s some kinda . . . rare breed.”

“You could sell him on the Internet.”

“To some stranger? I don’t think so.”

“You bought dog food for him.”

“And a dog bed,” she adds.

“I’d say he’s your dog.”

Again she waves him off. Whitey drops to the ground on his back, squirming around. Maybe itching his back or pretending he’s rolling in gopher poop or something. She’s not a dog psychologist and doesn’t care to find out what’s going on in that bowling ball he calls a brain.

Shane says he’ll make lunch. Though Atlanta hit the grocery store this morning, it’s not like she knows what to do with most of the ingredients—so she was figuring again on a packet of ramen noodles, or maybe a microwave pizza (though admittedly a higher-grade microwave pizza than she’s normally used to). But then she called Shane and told him what happened and here he is. Offering to stay over for a couple-few nights until Mama comes home. She asked him what good he would be if Orly came back, and he said he’d “bring his katana.”

Sure enough, he brought his katana.

He cooks up another of his famous grilled-cheese sandwiches. Way Shane cooks is very focused, hovering over the skillet like an artist or an archaeologist, brow knitted and mouth pursed into a tight pucker.

Eventually he plops a sandwich on a plate for her, garnished with a little green sprig of parsley.

One bite and her eyes close and she can’t help but make a mmmmguuuhhh sound around the bulging cheekful of bread and cheese and—a little bit of mustard? “Besht shandwich effer.”

Whitey stands there and starts to drool. Big, glistening ribbons of saliva hanging from his jowls. Shane scowls at the dog and scoots his chair around the other side of the table.

“So you going to talk about it?”

“Whut?” she asks, still chewing.

“Orly coming over here.”

“It’s fine,” she says, swallowing a delicious clump of sandwichy goodness. “I ran him off.”

“He threatened you. You shot at his car.”

Atlanta sighs. “I know.”

“And you didn’t give him what he wanted.”

“I know.” She pokes at the half-eaten sandwich, her hunger vanishing. “He’s a bully. They’re all bullies. What would you have done? Would you have given him the dog?”