“He’s back?” Grace lunged for Carole, who used the momentary slackening of Grace’s hold to place her paws on the edge of the pan and struggle to escape. Grace grabbed her hard. “You stay right here.” She held the dog firmly now, and looked up at Amelia. “Why didn’t he let me know he was home?”

Amelia explained about his injury and the cane. “I don’t know what happened, how he was wounded or how badly. He seemed highly agitated—no, more like depressed.”

Grace’s heart sank. Randy was injured. Grace had heard and read about the number of suicides of young men and women after coming home from this war, or who had killed themselves while still overseas.

“I wouldn’t wait for him to visit you. I’d go to him,” Amelia said.

“Thanks for telling me. I’ll go later, when I’m done with this puppy.”

Carole shook herself hard, splattering suds on Grace and Amelia.

“I’ll dry her for you,” Amelia offered. “Where’s Benji?”

“Safe. In his cage.”

Later, distracted and unaware, Grace drove faster than the speed limit and never heard the police car siren until it pulled alongside her and the policeman waved her over.

“Officer,” she said, feeling confused, “I am so sorry. Whatever I did, I’m sorry.” He towered above her car. “What did I do?”

“I clocked you going twenty miles above the speed limit, ma’am.” His hand shot out. “Your license and registration.”

Grace fumbled in her purse and extracted the license, which vanished into his huge palm. His fingers closed about it. She rummaged in the glove compartment for the registration. “I am really sorry. I was thinking about Randy Banks. He’s home from Iraq and he’s been injured.”

“Even more reason to watch your speed, ma’am, so you don’t end up injured.” He strode to his car, leaving her flustered, embarrassed, and angry at him and at herself.

After what seemed a very long time, the policeman returned and busied himself writing her ticket. At one point he looked down at her. “I know Randy Banks. Poor guy got shot up pretty bad, I heard. He’s been at Walter Reed Hospital.”

It was worse than she imagined. She accepted the ticket, which would cost her $125, folded it, and slipped it, her license, and the registration into her purse. “Thank you,” she murmured, but her mind was on the Banks family. Why hadn’t Randy’s mother or his sister Lucy or any one of those children called or come by to let her know? “I’m very fond of Randy, of the whole family. I’m on my way over there now.”