What does Lionel look like now?—I don’t dare ask.

One thing, Vi’let, Lionel has not asked about you. So maybe don’t worry, OK?

He hasn’t?

Has not. Not that he’d ask me anything but Mom has told me, Mom wants me to know so (maybe) I can pass it on to you.

At this revelation, this tiny crumb proffered me, my heart leaps. Mom wants me to know so (maybe) I can pass it on to you.

Mom knows that we talk on the phone, then?

Well—hard to say what Mom knows, or doesn’t know. Like with Dad, they don’t talk about you, ever.

OK. Thanks.

Well, I mean—that isn’t news to you, Violet? Is it? After thirteen years?

No. You are right.

Look, I’m sorry to—whatever. But you asked. So I told you. But the thing is, Mom sort of knows that we are in communication, and she definitely told me that Lionel has never asked about you, so why’d she tell me that, unless she thought I’d (maybe) tell you?

To this, I can’t think of a reply. Wiping tears from my face, as Brindle rears up on his hind legs, on the sofa beside me, to eagerly lick my face.

Brindle, no! Stop that.

Katie asks what’s going on there? Who’s—what’s—“Brindle”?

Brindle is a dog who has come to live with me, I tell Katie.

You have a dog? Really, Violet? How’d that happen?

His owner didn’t want him. His life was endangered.

What kind of dog? Katie is sounding surprised, a little envious. Though mostly relieved that the conversation has swerved onto a safer subject.

He’s a little guy. Miniature bulldog.

Bulldog! Aren’t they ugly?

Brindle is nudging and pushing against me, skinny tail flailing. His big bug-eyes shine like black fluorescence. Is the little bulldog ugly, or—beautiful? Close up, Brindle panting in my face, licking my face, it’s impossible to judge.

Katie fires more questions at me. Between us is the marvel that Violet has a dog, that Katie had no idea that Violet has a dog, the sisters know so little of each other now.

Katie asks me about Mohawk University, what courses am I taking here. Why did I transfer from Catamount Falls. How do I like living in Mohawk, she’d looked it up online and was impressed, it’s in a kind of tourist area, Mohawk River Valley, New York State wineries, Finger Lakes. Of course, Mohawk is pretty small—exclusive of the university enrollment, population six thousand.

Waiting for Katie to ask if I’ve made friends here. Any special friends here.

But Katie doesn’t ask, out of discretion perhaps imagining that I am as lonely as people in South Niagara imagine I must be, and deserve to be, in my involuntary exile.