He answered texts and emails and sometimes even the phone. He took Pebbles for a run in the morning, a walk at lunchtime, and, most nights, a romp in the dog park. If a person asked what her name and breed was, he’d answer. Every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon, he went to karate, which was actually pretty fun. Being around five-year-olds with badass attitudes let him escape a little bit. He and Ben resumed their long, rambling walks. Ben had a soft spot for Pebbles and loved throwing her the Frisbee, which Pebbles could catch in midair.

“How are you doing, son?” Ben asked.

“Doing okay.” Somehow, those brief talks helped. He guessed it was just knowing Ben was with him that did the trick. They had never needed a lot of words, after all.

The anger would come in red flashes. He lost his car keys one day and tossed the apartment like a DEA agent looking for meth, knowing as he flipped the couch cushions and slammed drawers and barked out curse words that he was overreacting (and would be the one to clean the mess up later). His car didn’t start one day, and he kicked it so hard it dented. When his shirt got caught against a chain-link fence during a run, he tugged it, tore it, and then ripped the whole shirt off and split it in half, then tossed it in the trash.

It wasn’t the shirt, or the car battery, or the keys. It was one more thing, no matter how small, that he had to deal with. The rage was sickening and satisfying—he’d never kicked a car before, for God’s sake, and what good did it do? That thought hadn’t stopped him from kicking it over and over. The punching bag in the first-floor gym was earning its keep. If his little karate compadres could see him then, they’d be terrified.

Anger was one of the stages of grief, he knew. It made him feel huge and sick and even a little scared of himself, and when it passed, he was ashamed. “It’ll get better,” his mother said, staring at his now-calloused, reddened knuckles. “I know it doesn’t seem like it, but it’ll get easier, honey.”

He didn’t see how that was possible. Lauren had been the center of everything, it seemed, and now instead of her, there was a black hole with ragged, sharp teeth, gnawing at everyone who loved her, eating them like a snake eats a hapless field mouse, in gulps and fits.