In person, the receptionist was all-business, which Josh appreciated. He checked in, sat down and waited. Looked at Cat Fancy magazine, which was a real thing. Checked his phone. A text from Jen asking him over for dinner this weekend. He answered yes immediately. Thank God. He’d see the kids. It would be noisy. Darius would slap him on the shoulder. He’d be back in the land of the living, in other words. He asked what he could bring. She told him to bring some beer. He would do that.

There was another text from his dentist, reminding him he had an appointment, press Y to confirm, C to cancel. C it was. Wasn’t he suffering enough?

The thought made him smile a little. Lauren would’ve liked that joke.

He glanced at the other clients in the waiting room. An older woman was talking in a baby voice to an enormous cat, who stared with murderous eyes at the Great Dane across the room. The Great Dane sat motionless—perhaps scared of the cat—while his owner read something on his phone.

A youngish woman—thirty, maybe?—sat with a very ugly, patchy dull white dog of indeterminate parentage, and wiped away tears. The dog (he was 93 percent certain it was a dog) looked really old; its bottom teeth—the ones that remained—jutted out, its eyes goopy. Probably here for euthanasia, Josh guessed.

Its owner noticed him looking and wiped her eyes again. “What’s wrong with your dog?” she asked.

“Oh. Um . . . she was limping before.”

“How old is she?”

“Two and change.”

“She’s pretty. What’s her name?”

“Pebbles.” Interact, Josh, he heard Lauren say. “Yours?”

“Duffy.”

Josh didn’t ask what was wrong with Duffy. He didn’t want to know, frankly, because he suspected he’d respond with, “Big deal. My wife just died.”

The cat growled. The Great Dane whimpered, then tried to climb on his owner’s lap.

“My dog’s really old,” Duffy’s owner said.

No shit, Sherlock. “Really?” Josh said. “He looks great.” White lies were good for the soul, Lauren used to say.

“He’s sixteen.”

“That’s . . . great.” Josh wasn’t aware that dogs lived that long.

“I know he’s old, but . . . I’m hoping for a couple more years.” Her face scrunched as she tried not to cry.

I was hoping for a couple more years, too, lady. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

“Duffy?” one of the techs called, and the woman stood up, old Duffy in her arms, his head on her shoulder like a baby.

“Thanks for talking to me,” she said, looking back at Josh.

It was an oddly sweet thing to say. “You’re welcome.” He should say more. “Feel better, Duffy.”

“Good luck with your dog.” She waved with her bottom hand, and Josh nodded, forcing a smile. If that dog lasted another month, someone should call CNN.

He looked down at Pebbles, who seemed to agree.