His face seems to sag on that side. Like he’s got a palsy.

But his chest rises and falls. Slowly. Steadily.

“Here,” Chennapragada says. “Souvenir. If you want it.”

She rattles a metal tray—a 9-millimeter bullet rolls around in there. It smells strongly of rubbing alcohol. The lead has mushroomed, like a muffin that blew up and out of its tin.

“He’s going to be okay?” Atlanta asks.

“He should be, yes. I’ll give you antibiotics and some pain pills.”

“I can take him home today?”

“No. He should stay here for a couple nights. So I can monitor him. But you’re free to visit with him.” The doctor eyes her up and offers a small, wry smile. “You can go over to him. He won’t bite.”

Atlanta didn’t even realize it, but she’d been hanging back. Afraid to touch him like he was a pile of dust and if she got too close he’d blow away on the wind of her breath. She hurries over, wraps her arms around him gently. He’s warm. The rise and fall of his breathing gives comfort.

Then: a stink fills the air.

Atlanta’s nose crinkles. “Something’s wrong. That smell . . .”

“Gas,” the vet says with a chuckle. “He farted.”

“Oh.”

Chennapragada shrugs. “Welcome, Miss Burns, to the joys of dog ownership.”

Whitey remains asleep, but his tail thumps against the metal table: clong clong clong. Happy in gassy oblivion.

Home again, home again.

By the time she makes it home—on foot—evening’s creeping in. Not yet dark but will be soon, the paint of twilight already spilling slowly across the sky. A few early fireflies light up their butts across the driveway and above the corn. Should be peaceful. She should feel settled. She doesn’t. She feels on edge. Like she’s stepping on the ragged tail of an Adderall high, but she hasn’t had Adderall in weeks. Itchy. Twitchy. Angry.

Inside, an answering-machine message from her mother. Things didn’t work out with Cousin Harley. Coming home soon. Couple more days, then she’ll be back. Hope everything is good there, whatever, blah blah blah.

Yeah, Mama, things are peachy-keen here. One big dollop of ice cream on a giant shit sandwich.

Mama coming home soon. Whitey, too.

Atlanta’s alone.

She should feel scared, but she doesn’t.

She calls Shane, and then she calls Guy.

It’s time to do something.