Gramps sits down with his PB&J and takes a bite, looking up at me. “I’m happy to lend an ear, Sassafras . . . ?”

I shrug, not wanting to add to Gramps’s worries.

Gramps nods and goes to the refrigerator. But instead of opening it, he pulls a paper from under a magnet and brings it back with him, sitting down once again. He slides the lost and found flyer across the table so that it’s facing me.

“Did you want to talk about where this poster really came from?” he asks me.

I swallow hard, past a big lump sticking in my throat. “You know?” I croak.

“I know,” he confirms.

“I just wanted to make it seem like someone was looking for Dewey,” I explain. “So that she has more time.” Gramps nods, encouraging me to keep talking. “I already knew she was in trouble because she told me so at the shelter the other day. And so I had to do something.”

“I have one question,” Gramps finally says, and I clench my stomach muscles, preparing to be scolded by the one person I’ve never wanted to disappoint. “So, if this poster is a fake, who was your mother talking with on the phone tonight?”

“It—it’s Macy’s number,” I stutter—that wasn’t the question I was expecting. “She said I could use it; she wants to help too.”

“Origami Macy?” he asks.

“Yes! Exactly, Gramps—Origami Macy!” I smile, knowing that Gramps does remember her. “But the thing is she can’t actually adopt Dewey.”

“I don’t want you to worry about the dog,” he tells me—easier said than done. “I’m on it. We’re not going to let anything bad happen to Marshmallow, honey.”

“Marshmallow?” I repeat. “You mean . . . Dewey, right?”

“Right.” He stands up and carries the mug over to my side of the table, setting it down in front of me. “Here, I made this for you.”

I peer into the mug. It smells like flowers. “What is it?” I ask.

“It’s your favorite: chamomile with just a spoonful of honey.” He scrunches his forehead as he looks at me, like I’m confusing him. “To help you get back to sleep,” he clarifies.

My favorite is hot chocolate with whipped cream. Mom’s favorite is chamomile. “Oh. Um, thank you,” I say.

“Of course, silly.” He chuckles, adding, “What are fathers for?”

“Grandfathers,” I whisper. But he doesn’t hear me.

“Now you get back into bed before Mommy finds out we’ve been out here having fun without her.”

I’ve never once called either of my moms Mommy—because Mom always said that was the name she reserved for her mother when she was young.

“Gramps?”

He has his back to me, busy clearing his plate and bringing it to the sink.

“Off you go,” he tells me.