“We’ll come back here,” Gramps declares, standing up from the log and brushing the dried crumbles of leaves off his pants. “But for now, we should be heading home, don’t you think?”

We walk back in the direction we came.

Gramps stops when we reach the gate and says, “I want to show you something. In the—uhh—Her House.”

“Do you mean the She Shed?”

“Right. She Shed.” He leads the way, pushing the door open.

Inside, Mama’s boxes of art supplies are all stacked up under her desk, and there is now a rug laid out in the center of the floor, and a brand-new fluffy dog bed in the corner. There is a basket full of bones, stuffed animals, and rubber toys. And two dog bowls laid out on a bone-shaped mat—one for water and one for food.

Gramps picks up one of the toys from the basket and squeaks it.

“Well, what do you think?” he asks.

I’m so stunned I can barely find words to respond. “Gramps, what—what is all this?”

“I like to call it the Puppy Palace.”

“Does this mean . . .” I pause, feeling my heart getting light and fluttery. “We can really adopt Dewey?”

I want to say thank you and oh my gosh and I can’t believe it and you’re amazing and am I dreaming? but my mind is going so fast I can’t catch one single thought long enough to actually form any words. I close my eyes, letting my mind take it all in.

Dewey will be saved!

“It might still need some finishing touches from you,” he says. “But it’s all decked out with everything she’ll need. Heck, it’s almost nicer than my room back in the main house, even!”

“But how—when—where did you get all of this stuff?”

“Where do you think, silly? The pet store.”

As I look around at the new dog supplies all over Mama’s art studio, Gramps’s words sink into my mind a little deeper, and my heart, which was so full and hopeful only a minute ago, is now overtaken with a sick, heavy feeling. Because why are we setting up a space for Dewey out here instead of in the house? Unless . . .

“My moms don’t know about this, do they?”

He lets out a small chuckle. “Well, we already know what they would say, don’t we?”

“Yes,” I answer. “They’d say no.”

“So what’s wrong?” he asks. “I thought you’d be happy?”

“It’s just—how will this work? Moms will find out, and I don’t know, I would want Dewey inside, as part of the family, not hiding out here.”

And then there’s the other part, the part that already has my muscles getting all knotted up throughout my body. “We’d be keeping a secret from Moms,” I tell him. “Lying.”