We walked slowly, Dusty wanting to pee on every stick and flower, the harsh light of day making it all feel more real. Made-for-TV movies flashed to mind, the ones I used to watch in the musty basement with my mom. The heroine’s escape from the bad guy was the climax, the triumph. You didn’t see this part, when she didn’t know how to begin again, when she wondered if Thoreau got bored, alone in the woods.

We reached the farmhouse, the picturesque Mercedes parked next to a pickup spattered with mud. Up close, it looked as idyllic as it had yesterday, though it needed a good bit of work. A window was cracked, and the exterior begged for a fresh coat of paint. I tugged the leash, but Dusty was obstinate – he stopped in front of the mailbox to do his business.

I heard yelling. I couldn’t make out the words, only raised voices, a screech that could be the scraping of a chair against hardwoods, a definitive stomp.

I stiffened, rapt. Old walls were thin, I knew that. Davis and I used to exchange terse whispers in the kitchen at night. Early on, he’d laughed about it, said that in Brooklyn, you didn’t have the luxury of having a good fight. It had been funny because it had been true. Our arguments were lovely and indulgent then, full of banter, like two people reading a script for a sitcom.

That had changed. Davis had found plenty of methods for getting his way without ever attracting the attention of the neighbors. I still don’t think the lady upstairs ever knew anything was going on.

The front door burst open, and I heard the woman’s voice – ‘Don’t ever do that again!’ – and I swear, I expected to see me walk out – eyes glistening, hands shaking, trying to make sense of what had happened but knowing there was no way to make sense of things like that.

Inexplicably, Ms Butter-Yellow Mercedes only shook her head, grinning, as if she even knew how to argue with grace. She wore her hair in a smooth ponytail this time, and her clothes were, again, all black, tight, and stretchy, sneakers on her feet. Her eyes locked on mine. ‘It’s you.’

Her words caught me off guard, and I felt naked and exposed, a kid in the cafeteria not knowing where to sit. I needed to do something, so I reached for the doggie bags, but there weren’t any in the holder. Shit.

‘The woman from yesterday, right? Can I help you?’

‘My dog,’ I said, finding my voice and nodding to Dusty. He pulled on the leash, wanting to say hi. ‘Sorry, he kind of – well – on your lawn, and I forgot the bags. I shouldn’t have let him go in your yard at all …’