She thinks of this afternoon, when she’d tried to call him for the third time today from the shoe store to tell him the news, and how she’d been filled with a senseless, startling rage at the receptionist’s report that, yes, his conference and his meeting were both through but now he was at the dentist, and that, yes, she had let him know that Ruth had called but would be sure to leave another message. And then there’d been Isabelle, across that stuffy room, standing stiff and sullen as the sweating, tired salesman measured her feet, throwing her mother furious looks that made more clear to Ruth than words that leaving her daughter alone like this had been a huge mistake, though she’d hoped that maybe, maybe while she was gone, Isabelle might talk, might be forced to talk. And then there’d been the matter of the vet, about which Wilson had been so utterly uncooperative; now it was up to her to get Maggie released a day early, and of course it would be her fault if the vet said no, you must wait until tomorrow; she would be the source of Isabelle’s disappointment when all she wanted to do in the first place was make her daughter happy. She had stood there fuming as she flipped through her little red book for the number of the vet. She’d planned on simply appearing there and acting as if they’d expected to pick up Maggie on Monday all along, but this idea had come to seem foolish—better to make up an excuse, that they were going away tomorrow early and so needed to get the dog tonight.

She dialed and smiled hopefully at her daughter as she waited through several rings for someone to pick up. Across the shoe store, Isabelle glared. But then, when Ruth finally got through, the receptionist told her that Mr. Carter had already called and arranged things, and Maggie was waiting even now to be picked up.

Ruth rubs her eyes, exhausted, unsure what the hell she feels—annoyance at Wilson, or gratitude, or guilt—she’s all over the place.

“Wil,” she says.

Wilson pushes her wineglass toward her and sits down. He looks at her, and there is something about his eyes that saddens Ruth. It isn’t that they are slightly bloodshot, which they are; nor is it the small crust of sleep that Ruth scoops from the corner of his eye with her pinky. Neither is it the way his eyes have sunk these past months deeper into shadow or the way the crow’s feet reaching from the corners of his eyes have become sharper, more pronounced. It’s something she can’t quite put her finger on, or maybe it is all of these things together that speak so clearly to his weariness.

“Thank you for doing the dog,” she says. “Thank you for arranging that after all.”