I occasionally help Dad with various two-person tasks around the building, but I’ve never been in this unit before. A handful of floors apart, hers feels completely different, with higher ceilings, arched hallways, and framed art on nearly every wall. There are bold-colored paintings and Africana art in every other corner and the distinct smell of Earl Grey tea around the open kitchen. Something about the space feels both homey and staunchly academic. The living room end tables, I realize, are in fact stacks of neatly aligned hardcover books with a thin layer of dust. It’s weird to imagine Corinne living here.

“To make a long story short, my daughter received this from her father.” Chantale sighs as we come to the sight of a crate in which sits a tiny border collie mix, whose tail is batting so hard at the sight of a new person, it might take off flying inside its cage.

“Well, hi, little buddy!” I wave.

The puppy itself is pretty freaking adorable. I’m not a dog racist—all breeds are beautiful in their own right—but holy crap, is this one a cutie: black and white, with patches of marbled gray around its neck and chest.

“What’s its name?”

“Palm Tree,” Chantale says, rolling her eyes at the cutesiness. “I can assure you that the brown balls he produces do not smell like coconut.”

“Hi, Palm Tree.”

“As I said in the email,” Chantale continues, immune to his charms—or mine, for that matter—“I’m often at my office this semester, and my daughter has a very rigorous academic schedule, so we need some consistent help for the foreseeable fut—”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Corinne stands in the doorway, her overstuffed backpack slung over both shoulders. She gives the straps an angry tug. My smiling is sometimes genuine and involuntary.

“Hi again, Corinne.” I grin. “Cute dog.”

“Mom, no,” she says, instantly dropping her bag to the floor, still in her FATE uniform and carrying the notebooks she had with her earlier. “This can’t be the new dog walker.”

“Don’t be rude, Corinne,” Chantale says. “They have a five-star online rating.”

“Just request a different walker, then!”

“The headquarters assigns walkers based on zip codes,” I quickly step in to say. “They probably wouldn’t be able to find another walker that’s closer than me. Same door address and all.”

Corinne narrows her eyes at me. “Mom, I can find us a better dog walker in three swipes,” she says, brandishing her phone.

“One that lives in the building? And has twenty-four/seven access to the super in case of emergencies, too, Corinne? This feels like a great arrangement.”

“He’s a high schooler,” Corinne continues, undaunted. “Palm Tree deserves better than a wildly immature seventeen-year-old.”

“Ageism,” I whisper, which causes Chantale to smile, ever so slightly.

“Quiet, you,” snaps Corinne.