I put my phone away, give a mom walking toward me a big aggressively smiley “Hi!” because she’s staring at the sling, and then at me, like I have a bird on my head, and am about to storm through a side door onto the playground. Just when I think I’m safe, I feel the poking: first on the arm, then on the shoulder. I close my eyes and try to collect myself before turning around to face Grace, who has somehow managed to catch up to me.

“Boy, you’re fast!” I say, hoping that opening with an aggressive compliment will help me stall for time. “And you’re not even winded!”

“I run.” Grace shrugs matter-of-factly. “Marathons.”

“Seriously? That’s impressive.” She is wearing a fleece zip-up with the Morningside Montessori logo and a nylon knapsack loaded with hot and cold reusable beverage containers in both side mesh compartments.

Another shrug. “Not really. I used to have an eating disorder but now I run. Which means I just traded one obsession for another.”

I blink, then smile, trying my best to lean into the awkwardness.

“I’m sorry,” Grace says. “TMI.”

I laugh out loud. “Are you kidding? You’re talking to someone wearing her dog in public. I’m the embodiment of TMI. Which means I’m the one who should be slinking away in shame.” But instead I’ll just stand here and endure my shame, hoping you take the dog-bait and forget to ask about our overdue tuition.

“And I’m sorry about the interruption this morning.”

“Yeah, what was that all about?”

“I can’t say.”

“Really?”

“No. I can’t. Privacy issues.”

“Like HIPAA?” I ask, and Grace nods. “You can tell me anything—I don’t talk to anyone. And even if I did, I’d probably forget what you told me anyway.” I tap the side of my head with my finger. “Senior moments on a daily basis.” That’s when I realize I’m still wearing my Bird hat. I pull it off as fast as I can and stuff it into the sling.

Grace smiles nervously, then looks down at the dog. “Such a cutie!” she coos, pointing to Charlotte’s head poking out of the off-white cotton opening. The sling-dog distraction appears to be working. Grace is being super friendly. She couldn’t possibly be any nicer. There’s no way she’ll bring up money now. “And you take it everywhere with you like that? Despite it being disabled?”

Confused and slightly offended, I take a step back from her. “The dog isn’t disabled.”

“I’m sorry. Differently-abled. Or walking-challenged.”

“Wait, what? The dog is fine.”

“So why don’t you just walk it?—I’m sorry. I don’t know what gender your dog identifies as so I keep calling it ‘it.’”

“Girl. Female. Charlotte.”

“Then she’s a therapy dog. Without an official vest.”

“Nope! Not a therapy dog!”

“Then why do you carry her?”

I shrug and sigh. “It just kind of happened. And now we can’t stop. It’s just what we do.”

Grace nods vigorously. “I know what that’s like. And I also know that sometimes life is too painful without a little buddy to help you feel safe.”