“He’s not wrong, Corinne. Are you advocating for discriminatory hiring practices right in my home?”

Chantale seems to be the sort of mother that enjoys rhetorical arguments over breakfast. I wonder if she was on a debate team during her high school heyday.

“I don’t— Whatever. This is so boring,” Corinne says, shaking her head. She walks past me, reaches into the crate, and scoops up Palm Tree with a free hand before grabbing her bag with the other. “I have application essays to finish.”

She purposefully moves the eager dog’s head out of the way as I move to pet him. Rude.

“Don’t come into my room when you’re here—that’s trespassing—and there’s legal precedent for prosecuting negligent dog walkers in the state of New York,” she says before disappearing down one of the apartment’s multiple hallways and slamming a door.

“She wants to be a lawyer,” Chantale explains, sounding a little proud of her daughter at the moment. “Apologies for the tantrum. College anxiety.”

“Oh, I’m familiar with it.”

“Right, of course. Well, her father, my ex-husband, thought a puppy might lighten her up with college applications at the door. He’s . . . a very dumb man.”

I Smile and nod at the awkward conversation turn. It feels safer not to comment. Chantale retrieves a pair of silver keys from a drawer in the kitchen and slides them my way. Numbers are exchanged, security code granted, and she seems to approve of the app I use for dog walk payments. In two texts there’s the first of a weekly sixty-dollar deposit into my checking account. After being on the receiving end of a handshake firmer than Dad’s, my first walk is agreed to be this Friday. I’m to let myself in.

And so it begins.

Three

According to his last text, my friend Ming is still nearby and about to make a colossal mistake. That blurry shot of hastily photographed probable contraband tells me exactly where to stop before heading home on Friday afternoon. We don’t have any classes together this semester and are on wildly different schedules, but of all the FATE students, Ming Denison-Eilfing might be the only one I consider a bona fide bro, as opposed to simply a cohort.

DON’T BUY! I rapidly text as I quickstep out of FATE. I turn two street corners and up four blocks to the storefront I recognized in the photo. When I find Ming, ungloved hands against the glass, he’s so mesmerized by the window display of sneakers that it’s a wonder he’s not getting pickpocketed right now.

“Dude!” I say, snapping my fingers in front of his hyperfocused eyes lovingly gazing at a pair of Nikes behind the glass. “You realize these are total fakes, right?”