“Matthew the birthday boy!” Walter shouted from a distance. “Driveway, front and center!”

Roy, in a dry set of clothes, was just stepping out onto the patio. “What’s going on?”

“My present!” Matt said, and ran past him into the house.

Helen picked up Joseph and motioned for Katherine to follow her. They all filed past Roy. He looked after them, then turned to Teresa. “What happened?”

“I have to change Frankie’s diaper,” she said, trying to calm down. She glanced at his shirt. “You missed a button.” He opened his mouth to speak, but she stepped around him and into the house.

A large cardboard box was sitting on the driveway in front of his father’s Chrysler. It wasn’t wrapped. It said Sears on the side and had a picture of a lawn mower. “It’s not a lawn mower,” Walter was saying, holding Matt by the shoulders, “and it didn’t come from Sears. I just needed a big box.”

“I know what it is,” Matt said.

“You think so?” Walter took his hands away. “Open it.”

Roy stepped up next to his mother, who had a pensive crimp in her mouth. Matt leapt onto the box and pulled at the flaps, which weren’t taped but had been folded into one another. As soon as he pulled back the first flap, the rest flew open, the box jostled, and something large and blond and furious scrambled out of it, lunging for Matt’s face.

“Whoa!” Walter yelled. “Dwight, knock it off!”

Matt screamed and reared back. The cocker spaniel, half in the box, half out, tipped the entire thing over and emerged, growling and snapping at the air. Matt ran behind his grandfather.

“Bad!” Walter reached down and popped his hand against the dog’s head. Dwight immediately dropped onto the cement, panting.

“That’s Dwight,” Roy said with a numbing sense of recognition.

“He’s just a little edgy. We had him in his travel crate, under that blanket in the backseat. He didn’t like going from the crate to the box.”

“That’s your dog.”

“Yes.” Walter sounded annoyed. “I know that. He’s a good dog, and Matt’s always been fond of him.”

Roy saw Matt peek around Walter’s hip timidly. There was a long pink scratch on one of the boy’s cheeks. “Pop, it’s your dog. You’re giving Matt your dog for his birthday?”

“He’s a fine dog.”

“Yeah, but he’s, what, twelve years old?”

“He’s eleven. He just turned eleven. Matt’s always loved Dwight, haven’t you, Matt?”

“Where’s the bike?” Matt asked, not so much frightened now as confused.