I grab my pillow with both hands, smash my face into it, open my mouth, and scream at the top of my lungs. When I pull my face away, I’m out of breath and my eyes are watering.

My gaze settles on my graphic novel on the nightstand, and I really wish that I could time travel like S. Hawkins. I’d go back to the morning I met Dewey and just get her to the house, before she got taken to the shelter. Then she’d be here right now, and I wouldn’t be fighting with Jude, and Gramps wouldn’t be coming up with this plan that seems bound to backfire on us.

It’s impossible to sleep. My conscience is keeping me awake. I haven’t even agreed to take part in Gramps’s idea about keeping Dewey in the Puppy Palace, and I already feel like I’m guilty.

“Dewey?” I whisper into the darkness of my bedroom. “I promise I’m still trying.”

I’m still waiting.

There’s got to be a better way.

I jump out of bed. I know what I need to do: I’m going to tell my moms everything. Maybe the honesty will work in my favor. Besides, they should know about all the little things that have been happening when I’m with Gramps, the way it seems like he’s getting more and more confused. And who knows, I think, maybe if they hear what Gramps is planning, they’ll understand how important Dewey is to me—to both of us—and they’ll figure out a way to make it work for us to adopt her.

I creep across the hall to their bedroom, and as I peek inside, I see that the two lights on each of their nightstands are on. They are talking quietly, so I stand outside their door for a second to make sure I’m not interrupting. I raise my hand to knock, take a deep breath, and just as my knuckles graze the surface of the door, I hear Mom say something that freezes me where I stand.

“A nursing home, Elle, really?” Mom sniffles. “How did we get here so quickly?”

“Love, it’s not a nursing home. It’s assisted living,” Mama says. “There’s a difference.”

“Not to him, there’s not.” Mom lets her head fall into her hand, and she takes in a shaky gasp of air. There are brochures spread out across their bed.

Mama picks another one up and unfolds it, showing it to Mom. “Look at this one, Katie. Oakwood Village. It has a pond. Art classes. It’s only twenty-five minutes away. He could still be very independent, but also get the help he needs.”