“It’s not a crime,” she says with a tiny shrug of one shoulder. “It’s just human.”

I take a breath. “After you left, Mom said that she’s done trying to connect with the dead. I don’t know if she’ll go back on that, if it’ll stick. But if it does, I’ll have you to thank.” Sylvie pulls into the vet clinic’s parking lot, puts the car in park. Rain pounds the car’s roof. “I’m sorry. Truly.”

She turns off the engine and the dash lights go out, leave us in shadow. “For what?”

“How I’ve treated you. Regardless of what I think, I should’ve asked how it felt being on the other end of all that need and raw emotions.” Heat climbs up my neck. “It must be brutal.”

Sylvie’s eyes glow like beacons. “Sometimes it is. But it’s also a gift. Do you believe in anything I told you?”

I swallow the tangle of emotions jammed in my throat. “Can you forgive me anyway?”

“. . . Yes.”

Chris manages to purr for a few seconds. Softly, I say, “Sometimes the smallest things take up the most room in your heart.” It’s my turn. “Will you come in with me?”

Sylvie unbuckles her seat belt. Again, I’m floored by her capacity for kindness. We leave Moose in the car despite his whimpers. When we get to the front desk of the veterinary clinic, I can’t say the words and step away as Sylvie quietly confers with the receptionist.

We’re ushered to a different room than before and there’s no steel exam table. Instead it looks like a small living room with leather chairs, a plush couch, and throw pillows in warm greens. A wide-planked oak floor is partially covered by a braided rug. The lighting is soft; paintings on the walls are of mountains, oceans, and a forest. Sylvie lights the candle on the table and soon the scent of pines fills the small space. There’s a soft knock on the door and Dr. VanVoorhies steps inside. She’s taken off her white coat and wears jeans and a pink turtleneck.

“Hi, Thomas,” she says then runs a hand along Chris’s back, rests it momentarily on her chest. “I’m glad you brought Christopher Robin in tonight.” She meets my eyes. “Chris won’t feel any pain. I’ll give her a mild sedative to make sure she’s comfortable, relaxed, and then a shot of pentobarbital, which will bring on unconsciousness. Within two minutes Chris’s heart and brain functions will shut down. You can hold her in your arms the entire time.”

My brain screams NO! But my heart takes over. I sit on the couch while the vet gathers the medications from a wooden cabinet by the door. Chris gazes at me like she knows.

Sylvie sits beside me, close but not touching, and murmurs, “Chris doesn’t know. She just loves you.”

Tears soak into Chris’s fur. “I love you, Christopher Robin,” I tell her. “Thank you for choosing me. It means the world. I chose you, too. I’m still choosing you.” I nod at the painting of a forest. “Imagine walking through that forest,” I say. “We’re together, soft dirt and pine needles beneath our feet . . .”