She described Chowder jogging down the riverbank and how she’d been almost close enough to reach his brush of tail, if she’d only reacted quickly enough. She told the boy each shade of emotion she’d experienced: How at first the tail disappearing was funny, like a cartoon where the world broke open and pulled a silly wolf under its soft surface. How her next thought was relief. She actually considered that Chowder hadn’t pooped yet, and now she wouldn’t have to touch it. But then she thought of Beth, and a fist squeezed her heart.

“I didn’t even fully step on the ice,” Molly said.

“That would’ve been stupid,” James said. “If he fell through, you obviously would have.” He said it like he was answering an exam question, some calculation of body mass divided by structural stability, without consideration for feelings.

“I should’ve walked out a few steps. At least until it cracked. At least so I had.”

James fingered his eyes until Molly couldn’t tell if the resultant tears were from grief or physical pain. “Chowder, Jesus. What a dog.”

“I know,” said Molly, and now that Chowder was dead, she sort of meant it. All his dumb affection had value, probably.

“You must really love her,” James said.

Molly smelled a trap, but she was curious. “Why do you say that?”

“You’re crying over a dog.”

“You’re crying too.” He was, though his streaming tears didn’t dilute his rational tone.

“They’re just dogs. He was sort of old, right? Dogs die. They just die. You know, at our farm? Dogs were always dying. We threw the extra litters into Canada.”

“I thought you were from Greenwich, Connecticut.” Everyone here was either from New York City or Greenwich, Connecticut.

“What? No. North Dakota.” James struggled up in the chair, as though attempting a more dignified pose. He threw out an arm in a loose-jointed gesture. “The point is, they’re animals. They do the best they can. Like people come here more for Chowder than Beth. He did his job, and now he’s gone.”

“Not naturally, though.” Molly squeezed her eyes shut. She was hit with Chowder’s claws scraping the river bottom, his eyes popping nerves.

“Still.”

Molly was beyond high, out of her mind. She was in the sky above Prospect Street, watching the plain square of Hurlbut Hall. In the open air it was evident that Beth loved her with the most energy of anyone Molly had ever been with. That Beth was the smartest person Molly had ever known, the most patient with Molly’s flimsy musical career, her fake job. Who cared about her prudishness, her stress? Those features hardly mattered when you looked at the whole of their life together. “Yes, I do. Very much.”

“Do what?” asked James.

Molly shook the hot idea from her head. “Never mind.”