“No, no, my boy, no arguments. Bring Igor inside, Glenn, and give him a drink.”

My eyes dart up and down the road. No sign of the Hummer.

Their house, painted dark green, is surrounded by neatly mowed grass. A hammock hangs between two apple trees.

In the kitchen, copper saucepans dangle from the ceiling among bunches of herbs. Pots of scarlet geraniums sit on the windowsills. There are books on the pine shelves, the counter, the table, the floor, and the chairs—enough books to make me hyperventilate.

In one corner, a metal stand holds a flute and some sheet music. Music is being piped from the stereo into the kitchen, wild, energetic music that’s a long way from hard rock.

Mr. Semple pulls out a chair for me and bustles off to the bathroom. Once Glenn has unclipped Igor’s leash and topped up his water bowl, the dog heads right for it. Glenn says, staring at Igor, “Thanks for stopping him. I don’t ... well, thanks.”

No need to answer because Mr. Semple comes back in. He fills a basin with warm water and dumps in some disinfectant that turns it cloudy. “Sorry, but this will hurt,” he says, taking my hands and lowering them into the water.

Breath whistles through my teeth. “We don’t want the cuts to get infected,” he says as he takes the cap off a tube of antibiotic cream. “Glenn, why don’t you pour Brick some juice? Pomegranate or apricot, Brick?”

“Uh ... apricot.”

Mr. Semple blots my hands dry, picks out bits of dirt with tweezers, then dabs the cuts with cream; although his fingers are pudgy, they’re deft and gentle. Last, he puts Band-Aids on the cuts. “That should do it. But keep an eye on them. And, Brick, thank you so much for bringing Igor home. Glenn, have you thanked him?”

“I already did.”

“You don’t sound terribly grateful.”

“I am. I really am.” His arm looped around Igor’s shoulders, Glenn adds, “I didn’t think you liked dogs, Brick. Especially Igor.”

“Guess I changed my mind.”

The stereo’s changed to a violin winding a melody around the occasional soft notes of a piano. It’s the saddest music I ever heard.

“What’s that called? That music.”

“Ravel’s ‘Kaddish,’” Mr. Semple says.

I must look blank as an empty page. “Ravel was a French composer who died in 1937,” he says. “Kaddish is the Jewish prayer for the dead.”

“It sounds like stones dropping into water.”

“Hmm ... interesting analogy.”

“I listen to AC/DC,” I say, Mr. Tough Guy.

“For Those About to Rock tops my chart,” says Mr. Semple, and suddenly the two of us are laughing.

Glenn says to me, “I never heard you laugh before.”

“It’s not like we hang out together.”

“Why did you cut your hair?”