“Now?” Peaches blurted out. The dog didn’t care. But she didn’t want to meet him on some street corner in case he was a serial killer. She could wind up in pieces in the Gowanus. “There’s a bar on Sackett and Bond called Bikini Bottom.”

“Love that place.”

Peaches tried to keep the tremor out of her voice. “I can meet you there in five minutes. I have my wallet, but I don’t have a lot of cash.”

“Give me ten minutes. I have a swiper thing. You can pay by credit card. I’ll send you a text receipt you can forward to your friend so he can reimburse you.”

His instructions were so practical, capable, and normal. Peaches decided to trust him.

She tied the dog to a bike rack outside the bar and told him to lie down. The bar was crowded and full of drunk people playing shuffleboard. Peaches sat down and ordered a beer. She wished she’d gotten Stuart Little’s number so she could tell at least one person in the world where she was and what she was doing and make sure he’d pay her back. The school had some sort of complicated online parent directory on its website. She scrolled around on her phone. Maybe it wasn’t that complicated. Grade IV. Mrs. Watson’s class. Ted Little. Mom: Mandy Marzulli. Dad: Stuart Little. Bingo.

Hey. I’m in a bar, waiting for the Dr. Feelgood guy to deliver some stuff. I’m putting it on my credit card. Just wanted to let you know in case they find my body parts drifting in the Gowanus or something.

Stuart texted right back.

Yikes! Text 911 if u need rescuing!! Thank u, ur amazing. I’ll pay u back ASAP.

It was tempting to continue the flirtstream with Stuart Little because Dr. Feelgood was late. Poor dog. Peaches was about to give up halfway through her pint when a silver-haired gentleman wearing a sky-blue linen shirt slid onto the barstool next to hers.

“I have a large dog,” she growled at him.

The man laughed. His face was tanned and healthy-looking. “Yes, I saw him tied up outside. How old is he? Fifteen? Twenty?”

“Eighteen,” Peaches admitted. “On a good day.”

“Dr. Conway.” He held out a nicely kempt hand. “At your service.”

“Oh.” Peaches shook his hand. “I thought it would be a delivery guy, not the doctor himself.”

He smiled. His teeth were beautiful. “I do everything myself. Otherwise things get… murky.”

Peaches nodded. There was nothing murky about Dr. Conway. He was a perfect specimen.

“MS is very difficult to live with,” he continued. “But it’s not you who has it, is it? It’s a friend?” His shirt was very blue and his neat jeans were very white. His silvery gray hair looked like it had just been cut. Dr. Conway was a silver fox.