Every morning Cate has to put on her shoes with the obstacle of a dog’s cement-block head in her lap. Sailor’s excitement is never tamped down by the predictability of his walk. Sunny or inclement outside, he drags in one of her shoes every morning at 8 a.m., even this deep into winter, when 8 a.m. means not long after daybreak. He’s never off by more than a few minutes. This morning the shoe is being pressed against her forehead and pops her out of a dream about hurling herself down stairs, taking them a flight at a time by swinging around on the newel post and throwing herself feetfirst in a springy way down onto the next landing. This is the way she takes stairs in her dreams. Her dreams are filled with stairs.

“Okay, buddy,” she whispers and looks down at Maureen, lying like a fallen fighter, her fan tattoo soft across her shoulder blade. The scent coming off her warm body when Cate lifts the cover is dry and autumnal, like a burning pile of leaves (or a couple of cigarettes). Even though Cate moves as delicately as possible, shh-shh-shhing Sailor backward so she has room to get out of bed, Maureen stirs.

“It’s early,” Cate tells her. “Go back to sleep.”