“But he wrote ‘LOL.’ He’s just kidding.”

“Yeah . . . I think he’s serious. You don’t want to enter this fight.”

“But I already served him. Can I take it back?”

“No, but that’s all right. And who knows, maybe I’m wrong. It’s just that Henrietta takes up more of the picture than he does. We can’t really see what he looks like, and his only interests have to do with her.”

She groans. “See? I told you my dick picker’s broken.”

“Healing,” I correct her. I need to get her to stop saying “dick picker.” My right eye twitches every time she does.

MustLoveDogs lobs back instantly, which, frankly, is a bad sign.

Bree squints at his message:

MustLoveDogs: Henrietta’s birthday is tomorrow! No need to spend a lot—under $100 is great—but if you’d like to come, we’d love to meet you. Woof-woof! (That was Henrietta! :))

“Under a hundred?” Bree sputters.

“Let’s reply and move on.”

“Don’t even! That was gross.”

I resist the urge to point out that Bree was the one who contacted him. The right thing to do is close it out properly. “He doesn’t count,” I assure her. “We’ll find five more.”

Under Bree’s account I write:

TheDuchessB: Happy Birthday to a special dog! I’m afraid I’m not available. Hope it’s a terrific day. Then I “Ace” him so he won’t come up in any more searches. I don’t trust “after-hours” Bree not to serve him again by mistake.

We scroll through more profiles.

“This guy might be cool,” she remarks. “He’s a lawyer.”

“He’s also into Ren Faire. That’s up your alley, right?”

Her face contorts. “Ew! No.”

Who knew cosplayers could be so snobby? “But only once a year, upstate. And he’s got a nice smile,” I point out.

Ignoring me, she points at a muscular dude with a buzz cut. His username is RedPill. “What do you think about him?”

I read his About Me section aloud: “To find out if we’re compatible, please complete this sentence. Sully was a hoax—Yes/ No.”

Bree gasps. “Was it?”

“No!” I shout, before reining myself in. “No, Sully was not a hoax.” The Miracle on the Hudson is the one thing I know to be good and pure and true about New York. I refuse to entertain any notion that suggests otherwise.

“I think he wants us to say ‘yes.’ ”

“Probably, but—”

She clicks “serve” and types, “Yes.”

I grit my teeth. We need to work on her impulse control.

Two seconds later, a response:

RedPill: You’ve been auto-subscribed to my newsletter.

“Nondrinkers suck,” Bree declares.

I can’t disagree.

“How about ‘occasional’ drinkers, then? ‘Everything in moderation’ types?”

“Hallelujah. Yes, please.”