Some mornings she would turn off my alarm before it rang and then lean down and nuzzle my cheek with her nose or kiss me on the forehead. That was how I liked waking up. And I wish I still could.

But that time is gone. . . .

And I’m dragging when I walk Grendel at six forty-five the next morning. And I’m nervous, shaky. Madeline’s words play over and over in my mind, her promise—threat?—to be watching me, following me, making sure I do what she’s demanded of me. Is she out here right now, lurking in the bushes or behind a car?

My head thumps. A dull pain above my right eye. Champagne. It’s been years since I drank it, and I downed several glasses with Lance and Preston last night. They thought I was celebrating. I needed the drinks to calm down after seeing Madeline.

It’s cold, but Grendel takes his sweet time deciding where to shit. He seems to have become pickier in his old age. He prefers taller grass, but it’s January in Kentucky. Good luck finding anything growing.

While he sniffs and contemplates, I look around, studying my neighborhood of small, well-kept bungalows housing professors and young professionals. I expect to see Madeline lunging toward me with the book in her hand, demanding money.

I try to convince myself it was all a dream, a guilt-induced hallucination that conjured her in my living room last night. But I know it’s real. Her copy of the book still sat in the chair where she left it. Her glass remained in the sink.

For all I know, she’s already gone to someone in a position of authority at the university.

Grendel drops his load, and I pick it up with a plastic bag. We start back. Snow flurries start to fall, swirling around us. Grendel lifts his snout and sniffs as though he’s enjoying the scenery. His brown eyes are duller, the fur around his snout grayer. I tell him I’m running late. We have to hurry. And I give the leash a gentle tug, which moves him along.