“Sadie, there are two dozen great dogs at the shelter right now who are ready to be adopted.” She shakes her head before continuing, “The point is: this dog is not adoptable.”

“But—” I begin.

But Mom interrupts me. “You need to let it go, Sadie.”

“Fine,” I say, and I stomp up the stairs to my room.

I can hear them talking downstairs, underneath the clanging and clinking sounds of the dishes being collected and washed, while I get changed into my pajamas. I don’t even believe what Mom said about Dewey. She was perfectly sweet to me. More than sweet, actually. She was practically . . . a person.

I check my laptop: nothing from Jude.

I tuck myself into bed and stare at the ceiling.

This dog is my friend already. And I don’t have any other friends right now. At least not friends who are here, anyway. Why doesn’t Mom care about that?

“Sassafras?”

I look over and see Gramps standing in my doorway. “Hi, Gramps.”

“Just wanted to check on you.” He walks over and sits down on the edge of my bed, smiling sadly, and says, “I’m sorry about the dog, my dear.”

“The thing is, I know she’s not a mean dog, but Mom doesn’t care. She just doesn’t want me to have any friends.”

“Oh, that’s applesauce and you know it,” Gramps says, batting his hand at me. “I mean, I’m your friend, aren’t I?” he says, pointing to himself.

“Yeah,” I answer.

“So if your mom really didn’t want you to have any friends, why would she have asked me to move in here?”

I think about it. “Okay,” I say. “I guess you have a point.”

“Lights out in ten minutes, everyone,” Mom says in the hallway, and then she sticks her head into my room and says, “Did you brush your teeth?”

I cross my arms and don’t answer.

“I don’t have teeth,” Gramps whispers to me after I don’t say anything, tapping a fingernail against his shiny white dentures. “So she must be talking to you, kiddo.”

Gramps stands to leave too, but I whisper, “Gramps, wait. Can I tell you something?”

He nods and says, “Anything.”

“That dog is special,” I say.

“I know she is,” he agrees.

“No, I mean . . .” I pause. “I think she might be able to talk to me.”

“Interesting.” Gramps sits back down and says, “What did she sound like?”

“She wasn’t really talking to me with words, but it was like I could hear what she was thinking in my head.”

“I’d say that’s a very special dog, indeed,” he finally says.

“Do you—do you think I’m losing my mind?” I ask him. “Don’t you think that’s strange?”