An incident when Paul was ten had provided Sebastian with some deeper insight.

For Paul’s eighth birthday, his mother had given him a three-month-old puppy that was part Tibetan mastiff and part chocolate Lab. With its dark brown fur and shaggy face, the dog looked like a baby Chewbacca, which was the reason why Trixie had instantly fallen in love with the mutt. Chewbacca was Paul’s favorite character from his favorite movie, Star Wars. He’s my favorite because he’s loyal, Paul had explained to him once. Loyal and protective.

Chewie the dog lived up to his namesake. And Paul, unlike most kids, took over full responsibility, feeding and walking Chewie without having to be reminded or nagged, playing with him in the backyard. Paul had never been big on sleepovers, but the handful of times he agreed to them he had insisted Chewie accompany him.

When Chewie collapsed in the driveway one morning, Trixie and Paul still asleep, it was Sebastian who brought the dog to the twenty-four-hour emergency veterinary hospital.

When the vet gave him Chewie’s diagnosis, Sebastian sobbed like a baby right in front of the vet, Chewie lying right there on the examining table after coming out of anesthesia for the X-ray and MRI, the dog wagging its tail limply, no clue as to what was happening.

While Chewie had been undergoing the tests, Sebastian had texted Paul and Trixie, telling them he had brought the dog with him to the office. When Sebastian pulled into the driveway, his eyes were no longer puffy or bloodshot.

Paul was home—out back, practicing his free throws. He shot the ball, Sebastian watching it roll off his fingertips, like he’d taught him. Swish. He had made the JV team.

“I’ve got to talk to you,” Sebastian said after he got out of the car.

Paul used a forearm to wipe the sweat away from his eyes. “What’s up? Where’s Chewie?”

“That’s what I want to talk to you about.”

Sebastian told him about the cancerous tumors the vet had discovered in Chewie’s brain. About how surgery and chemotherapy weren’t options with this type of cancer, and even if they were, the cancer had spread. It was too late. There was nothing to do but say goodbye.

Sebastian was proud of himself for getting through his talk without his voice cracking. He was grateful for the mirrored sunglasses he was wearing, so Paul couldn’t see him blinking back fresh tears.

“I’m sorry,” Sebastian said, watching as Paul cradled the basketball against his hip and looked down the long driveway, as though someone were about to arrive at any second to rescue him, turn this situation around. “I’ll take you to the vet’s office.”

Paul turned back to him, his head cocked to the side. “Why?” he asked, sounding—and looking—genuinely puzzled.

“So you can say goodbye.”

“He’s a dog.”

“No,” Sebastian said. “He’s your dog.”

Paul’s expression and body language didn’t change. It was as if Sebastian had been speaking another language.