“I want us to adopt a dog,” I say. “I really feel very strongly about it, and I think a dog would make an amazing addition to our family. Plus, I know you both want me to be more responsible, and I have always wanted a dog. She—it—it would be my responsibility to feed and walk and play with every day. It would teach me responsibility.”

“Yeah,” Noah scoffs. “Every time I get kicked out of school, I ask for a new pet as a reward. Oh, wait,” he says, then pauses. “I’ve never been kicked out of school before.”

Sometimes I really, really hate my brother.

Mama looks at Mom, and then she says, “That’s something we can think about, but we’ll need to discuss it more.”

I nod and continue, “Okay but the thing is, I already know which dog I want to adopt.”

“No,” Mom says immediately, setting her napkin on the table next to her plate. “Absolutely not.”

“What?” Mama asks. “What’s wrong?”

“If you seriously want to talk about getting a dog—” Mom begins, but I interrupt her.

“I don’t want a dog. I want that dog.”

“The answer is no, and that is final.” She takes a sip of her drink, as if that marks the end of the conversation.

“But she only has until the end of the week to find a home!” I blurt out.

Mom sets down her glass and squints at me, “You were snooping in my files?” She says it like it’s a question, but the sharpness of her tone tells me that she’s not really asking; she’s accusing.

“No,” I try to say, but Mom just shakes her head like she doesn’t believe me.

Mama looks back and forth between Mom and me. “What do you mean ‘snooping’?”

“How else would you know that the dog is going to be euthanized at the end of the week?” Mom asks, crossing her arms.

Mama clucks her tongue. “Aw, that’s too bad.”

Euthanized. I know what that means.

It means death.

“That is, unless her owner claims her before then,” I hear Mom continue in the background of my racing thoughts.

It means . . . that Dewey is right. And if Dewey is right, that means all of this is real, and if all of this is real, then we are actually communicating telepathically.

It means she really does need my help.

“But Moms, that is not fair,” I argue, trying not to raise my voice.

“Sadie, that dog bit one of our handlers today. She is aggressive, reactive, and a huge bite risk,” she says, counting the reasons on her fingers. “There are rules about biters; I don’t make them, but I have to follow them.”

“She was just scared,” I yell. “She’s a great dog.”