“You’re in a church—what did you expect? To believe what I believe and not want to tell you about it would be the worst kind of hypocrisy. If you had cancer, wouldn’t you want the doctor to tell you? And if there was a cure, wouldn’t you want to know? That’s what I tell people: You’re a part of the human dilemma too, and I think there’s a cure. Let’s grab that beer sometime; we can talk more about it then.”

“Thanks.” Nick got up from the pew and stretched. “You said you go to Alena whenever she sends for you. How does she send for you if she doesn’t have a phone?”

“She sends a dog—a little one, about so high. Ugly little cuss. His name is Ruckus.”

“The dog knows where you live?”

“He knows what I smell like. He stops here first; if I’m not home, he’ll search all over town until he finds me.”

“Sort of like ‘call forwarding,’” Nick said.

“Yeah, something like that.”

“What about that three-legged dog that always seems to be with her?”

“That’s Trygg—she’s the most special of all.”

“Why?”

“Has anyone told you the story about the witch who wanders the woods at night in search of her father’s soul?”

“I think Agnes told me that one.”

“Well—that one happens to be true.”

21

21

Nick rapped his knuckles on the trailer door; it sounded tinny and hollow, like the door of a cheap car.

Alena opened the door and looked at him. “What did you do this time, knock down my fence?”

“I brought you a gift,” Nick said, holding out a small package.

“It’s a little early for pizza.”

“You’re obviously not a college student. May I come in?”

She hesitated but eventually opened the door and took the box.

Nick stepped into the trailer. In the living room he saw half a dozen puppies of various shapes and sizes—as Gunner said, “not a purebred among them.” They were curled up on the sofa and wandering the floor; one was sniffing at a spot on the carpet while another was gnawing on a rawhide toy. Alena walked to the sofa and scooped up one of the puppies along the way. She sat down and set the puppy on her lap, then rolled it over onto its back and began to massage its pink tummy and the undersides of its legs.

Nick watched. “What is this, a day spa for dogs?”

Alena gave him a look—half boredom, half disgust.

“Sorry,” Nick said. “I tend to be a wise guy. I’ve spent my whole life developing the habit, and I’m probably not going to change for you. May I ask what you’re doing?”

“Touching.”

“I can see that. Why?”