Inches from the door, I drop to my knees and collapse into a fetal position on my side to keep from fainting. My long, blond hair sticks to my face. My hair—how am I supposed to do my hair with one hand? Bathe? Apply makeup? Latch my Chanel necklace or Tiffany diamond bracelet?

Dear Heavenly Father, I know my relationship with you has been a bit parasitic—my bad—and I need to get my derrière to church, but if you could find it in your unconditionally loving self to give me the strength to not pass out, I swear to never use your name in the throes of passion again. Okay … I won’t swear because I know you don’t like that since I’ve sworn on the Bible one too many times only to have broken those sacred promises, but you get my point. I’m going to do better. I feel certain this is a coming-to-Jesus moment.

The pain! It’s so insufferable. The X-ray showed no broken bones, but I’m certain the extensive ligament damage is just as bad, if not worse. No amount of physical therapy will correct this. I’m ruined. Disabled at twenty-nine. Well, it’s been a good run.

Swarley cries. I cry.

The remorseless Weimaraner scratches at the door. I claw at the cold tile with my good hand to get close enough to slide open the door.

“Go!” I grunt. “Go piss on someone else’s day.”

No leash. No supervision. Just miles of beach for digging holes. Go dig your grave, buddy. I’m ready to bury your ass. My sister cannot get upset with me for letting her dog drown or get eaten by a shark. My brutally mangled hand is his fault. I’m her sister. She’ll take my side.

I think.

Maybe.

Who am I kidding? It’s highly unlikely.

Holding my hand to my chest with the fragility of a newborn baby, I find my feet, wobble a bit, and collapse onto the kitchen stool.

“Hey, Siri, call Anthony.”

Siri doesn’t respond. Straining my neck, I lean toward my phone on the other side of the counter.

“Call Anthony.”

Nothing.

“Dammit, Siri! Call Anthony!”

The screen lights up. “I don’t see Dance with me Anthony in your contacts. Shall I look for locations by that name?”

“C-ALL AN-THON-Y!”

“Okay, this is what I found on the web for colonoscopy.”

Swarley scratches at the door.

“For Pete’s sake, have all sharks given up red meat? Why are you still alive?” I slide open the door with my foot, grumbling.

Swarley saunters into the living room and plops down on his designer dog bed that I bought him before we broke up. Yeah, we’ve broken up. This will be the last time I dog-sit.