Of course, she didn’t know where Dick lived exactly. It’s not like she scribbled down the address with her paw on her way out the window. Luckily, there were ways and ways. She might not have a super nose like some of her kind, but the day she couldn’t sniff up her own backtrail to a den was the day she’d jump off a fucking bridge.

It didn’t take long, but her feet were freezing by the time she got there. Dick lived in a dignified brownstone condo that was probably built the year the Mayflower landed. She shifted her weight back and forth, stuck her hands in her stolen pockets, and looked up at his window. The glass hadn’t been replaced; there was a large piece of cardboard taped into the frame instead. Guess it took time to order that fancy old-fashioned stuff. Except for the rumble of an early morning delivery truck, the street was quiet.

“’Scuse me. D’you live here?”

She looked. The delivery boy was holding three brimming grocery bags, and looking glum. “Yeah. Why?”

“Well, thank God. ’Cause I’ve been making deliveries for two weeks, but the last couple days nobody ever takes the food in, and it goes bad or gets swiped, and it’s just a waste, is all.”

Ah, so that’s where all the sumptuous feasts came from! Dick had the food delivered and cooked the meals for her. Yum. “I was gone for a while,” she told him, “but now I’m back.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m the owner’s fiancée.” She shook her head. It sounded just as weird out loud as it did in her head. “Do I have to sign something?”

“No. He’s got an account with us.”

“Then get lost.”

“Nice!” He set down the bags, slouched back to his truck, and pulled into traffic without looking, in typical Boston fashion. Which was good, because it wouldn’t do for him to watch her break into the house.

“Well, shit.” That had been considerably easier said than done! Dick’s front door wouldn’t budge, and she was reluctant to break more of that expensive glass. He might not be so thrilled she came back. She had a vague memory of him grabbing her and begging her not to go, but it was more like a dream. She didn’t trust her wolf-brain to factually interpret human emotions.

She smacked herself on the forehead. Dummy! Why was she trying to see him in the daytime? Even if she got in, he wouldn’t exactly be a thrilling conversationalist. He’d be holed up in his bedroom, dead to the world—literally. Until then, she might as well chat with a rock. Still, it would have been nice to swipe some clothes.