Moose pads over, sniffs the sushi, then cocks one brow. “You already had dinner.” He licks his lips. “Fine. But only one.” Opening the container, I pluck out a salmon roll and he delicately nips it from my fingers. Satisfied, Moose climbs onto the sofa and rests his sleek head on my lap. Instead of eating, I collect the pages on the coffee table—printouts from Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook—and scan them . . .

Mindy recently lost her husband to suicide and his life insurance refused to pay. Her home is in foreclosure and several of her friends are trying to help. Walter’s thirteen-year-old son, Billy, is a runaway. I never considered choosing him for the last one-on-one. I don’t do kids if I can possibly avoid them. Hal is on a mission to find his high school crush, Gertrude. He has only four Facebook friends so it’s unlikely. Daryl was one of Thomas’s plants. I rip up his page and move on to Darcy. She’s the woman I almost chose instead of Theo, strike that, Thomas. First Balcony, Row D, Seat 37. She’s a nurse who took care of her sick father. Now she’s overwhelmed with guilt that his final days were filled with pain. She wonders if she should’ve sped up his death with morphine. I could’ve helped her.

I throw all the pages away then wrap my arms around Moose’s solid bulk. That reporter has already tried and convicted me. “If he saw my notes, he’d hold a public execution,” I tell Moose. My dog lifts one eyebrow then returns to snoozing. “There are plenty of people I help without knowing a single thing about them,” I add into his fur. “Back when I first started, there was no need for any of this . . .” The price of success.

Lucas reminds me, I believe in you.

But Thomas Holmes doesn’t. I find a copy of Theo’s Facebook page and skim his last post:

I write this with a heavy heart—Katy, my wife of five years, passed away a week ago despite a valiant fight against the cancer that spread through her brain. She died peacefully. I held her hand and our cat, Christopher Robin, curled by her side . . . Katy was loved by her students, trusted by friends, and valued at the shelter where she volunteered. She never met an animal she didn’t want to foster . . . I promised that I’d attempt to connect with Katy through a psychic after she was gone. I don’t totally believe it’s possible but I love . . . loved Katy enough to try . . .

Beneath the post are photos of Katy and Theo at Disneyland, her head wrapped in a scarf, thin body slumped in a wheelchair, in a hospital bed with their cat curled beside her; an old photo from better days of the couple on a hike. Shit. I’ve put off calling Lucas long enough—I get up to pace while I dial and wait for him to pick up . . .