Great. Perfect timing and location for this. We’re finally going to have that conversation, and I guess there’s just no way to stop it from happening here, and now, probably the worst place it possibly could happen. Instead of escalating, I try to calm him. “Gary. Of course I care. It’s just that—”

“You don’t care. It’s fine, it’s fine!” he mimics. “Go be with your girlfriend! Take your chance when it comes along! No problem!”

“But I want you to be happy! I don’t want to stand in your way of being happy! I thought that’s what you wanted! Isn’t that what you said in therapy?”

He ignores me. “All while you walk around with that fucking dog like it’s normal!”

“I know it’s not normal!”

“Then why do you do it? You’ve been wearing it for months now, Judy. When is it going to end?”

We are both whisper-screaming now, our throats scraping the words out; our bodies half bent at the waist; pointing at each other with every word we say. Were it not for the dog’s sudden restlessness inside the sling—in fact, she’s actively trying to get out, something she almost never does—we’d continue arguing. But I have no choice except to let her out. I bend down on the floor and help her out of the sling—trying, but failing, to grab ahold of her harness or her collar before she gets away from me, running down the hallway and barking maniacally now. Gary and I both chase after her, stopping at the end of the hallway when we see that she’s skidded to a stop in front of a pile of what looks to be, from a somewhat safe distance, a pile of fresh poop.

* * *

We stare at each other. The reality of what we’ve stumbled upon—the third instance of the Secret Pooper, just as I’d predicted—shocks us. So much so, that we actually grab, and hold on to, each other by the elbow. Do we call someone? Take a photo of it in case photographic evidence is needed later? Or wait until someone happens by and can tell us what to do? That third option becomes a reality when, from the other end of the dark hallway, Grace materializes. Her face is pinched with dread as she realizes what we’ve found.

“Oh no,” she whispers.

I stare at her until she fidgets with discomfort. “You’re the Secret Pooper,” I say. Suddenly it’s all clear.

There are tears in her eyes, and it looks like it’s all she can do to remain upright. She lets out a sharp breath, as if in that single exhale all the past few months of her insane behavior will now be expunged. I turn to Gary, my eyes wild with outrage. “I knew it. I knew it was her.”

She shakes her head. “It’s not me.”

“Oh really,” I say, full of spite, the adrenaline of defending Teddy and the anxiety about Glenn coursing through my veins. “Then who is it?”