I feel like I’m in a creepy online chat room that has suddenly come to life. “What are you, dog lawyers?”

“If you’re not doing anything wrong, why are you so defensive?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” I say, but the minute I utter the f-word, even more of a crowd gathers.

“Now, wait a minute,” a dude wearing spandex bicycle shorts says to me. “That was uncalled for.”

“Who the fuck are you? The fuck police?” I do a big theatrical shrug and look around for support. No one is with me. Instead of deterring me, it only emboldens me. “I’ll tell you what’s uncalled for,” I say, pointing at his encased thighs. “That outfit.”

“That’s it. Let’s call animal control.” Everyone in the mob takes out their phones and starts swiping and tapping.

“Animal control?” I snap. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“No, we’re not kidding you. Let’s get Ranger Molly down here and we’ll see if this is even legal.”

“If what’s legal?” I bray.

“Wearing a dog.”

* * *

While we all wait for Ranger Molly I pace, trying to calm myself. I stare off into the trees and at the water, which today is gray instead of bright blue the way it sometimes is. It’s then that I think I see Gary coming off the trail. I’m squinting, trying to see if maybe it’s not him—It’s Wednesday morning. Isn’t he supposed to be at work? But the closer he gets the clearer it’s him.

Only he’s not alone. He’s walking with someone. A woman. Tall, no makeup, black turtleneck under a zip-up fleece, jeans.

He’s laughing now, and talking using his hands, animated. He’s telling her a funny story—maybe about how I wrote all over Sari’s photographs and our escape from Vermont—which I still feel bad about and expect any day some kind of public shaming about in Sari Epstein’s social media feeds. Or maybe not, since actually that’s not a funny story. That’s a sad story. One that proves the true grimness of being stuck in a marriage you wish you could leave, is what he would be telling her if he were telling her that story.

No, they’re having far too much fun for him to be telling her about me. He must be telling her something else because she’s laughing so hard she stops midtrail and throws her head back, then holds her arm out, as if to say, No. Stop. It’s too much. I can’t take any more of this brilliant hilarity. I almost start to laugh, too, as if we’re all friends and I am in on the joke, too, but I don’t want to witness something upsetting that I won’t be able to un-see: like if he kisses her, or gathers her up in his arms, or takes her hand as they walk farther along the path.

I know I should stop watching them and that I should instead turn back to the mob of accusers pawing at their phones, texting and calling and waiting for Ranger Molly to show up and cite me for unlawful confined restraint of an animal, or so I overheard one of them say. I know I should protect myself from seeing something that could change everything. Would I survive secretly, but accidentally, watching Gary on a great date?