I tell her everything, starting at the beginning: meeting Dewey in the woods, then again at the shelter; the poster with Macy’s number; and Gramps and the Puppy Palace, and finish with the fact that now I have no idea what to do next.

“Wait, your archenemy Macy? Mean Machine Macy, who has never spoken to—never been nice to—anyone ever, who you have been avoiding all year, that Macy is helping you?”

“That’s what you’re most surprised about! What about the dog part?”

“I guess a telepathic dog is more believable than a nice Macy.”

Jude snickers, but I don’t.

“Macy is a lot different than we thought, Jude,” I say. Jude is silent for a few seconds, so I keep talking. “She’s sort of the only friend I have here now.”

“Ohh-kaaay.” Jude says, slowly, and I can’t tell what the pointy edges of those two syllables mean.

“Jude?”

“Jeez, sorry,” she finally says. “I didn’t know.”

“No, it’s okay. It’s just that—” I stammer, but I’m not sure what I’m really even trying to say. “The point is, what am I supposed to do now?”

It’s so quiet on the line, I can hear Jude’s breathing.

“This is the butterflyer part I need you for,” I say.

Jude makes this weird noise, like there’s something stuck in her throat.

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s just—I wouldn’t exactly call this a butterflyer.”

My heart starts beating fast, like there might just be butterfly wings flapping in my chest, sending jolts of electricity down my arms and legs. “How is this not a butterflyer?” I hear it in my voice, all sharp and tense, just like Gramps’s was earlier.

“Talking dogs?” she says, a giggle lurking behind the words.

“You’re making it sound stupid—it’s not that simple.”

“Okay, sorry!” she says.

Her words hang there, and the silence stretches out like taffy, until it seems like too much space has come between us and there are no more words left to say to her. She doesn’t understand. Why doesn’t she understand?

And then finally, she does laugh. Like it’s a joke.

“I have to go,” I say it quick, and then I hang up without even waiting for her to respond.

I throw my phone on my bed as hard as I can—it bounces off the pillow and lands with a soft thud on top of the comforter. Any other time I’ve been this angry with someone, I talk to Jude about it and that makes me feel better. Except this time it’s Jude I’m angry with—and what’s worse is that I still don’t have any advice on what I’m supposed to do!