Whether from the dog-mob or from spying on Gary, or both, my hands are shaking from the adrenaline and my legs are weak. Couldn’t I have just one normal uneventful day when I’m not being accused of something like torturing my dog, or my son’s not being suspected of pooping in public, or I’m not acting like a complete and utter lunatic in someone else’s home after one or two hits off a joint? After everything that’s happened, is my only reward really getting a full set of unsightly adult braces and having to watch my husband fall in love with someone else in real time?

I stare at Gary and his girlfriend like they’re Martians, their body language so alien to that of ours at home. They’re holding hands now, and Gary kisses her on the head. If I weren’t about to be arrested for animal cruelty, I would probably run away into the woods and vomit. But instead, I force myself to watch them, to see the result of my ambivalence and disinterest. Isn’t this what you wanted? Your husband has found a woman who likes him and wants to date him. Isn’t that what you wanted for both of you—freedom? Shouldn’t you let him go and be happy? Shouldn’t you stop your “confinement and restraint” of not just the dog, but of him, too?

I finally force myself to look away. I realize, when I hug Charlotte before taking her out of the sling and putting her leash on, that I’m crying. My eyes blur with tears as I turn back toward the water, but when I do I still manage to see, in the other direction of the trail, the strange figures of a couple, shrouded in oversize puffy parkas and hats and scarves. I wipe my eyes and blink, trying to get a clearer view: if I were the paranoid type, which of course I am, I would say the couple looks like Nick and Phoebe—something about their theatrical movements as they flee from my line of vision, ducking behind trees and now running toward the parking lot. If it is them, aren’t they supposed to be at school—rehearsing for the evening Spotlight, which is less than a week away? What are the chances that they’d be here, at the same time as me, and at the same time as Gary and his new girlfriend—all while I’m about to be arrested for some arcane animal cruelty infraction—unless they’d followed me here? But why would they do that?

Before I can even concoct an answer to such a bizarre and unlikely question—I’m probably just seeing things—Ranger Molly arrives. She’s wearing her usual forest-green pantsuit uniform with an army-green windbreaker, carrying a clipboard. A heavy black radio hangs from her belt. As she gets a quick briefing from the outraged mob, I stare at my phone and pretend not to notice while Charlotte strains on the leash. She wants to leave. A wave of sorrow for the weird un-pet-like life I’ve forced upon her overwhelms me. She should be running and playing with other dogs, not awaiting possible punishment for my sins. But no good dog goes unpunished; she did nothing to deserve any of this and yet she is stuck paying the price for all of it.