The boys departed, leaving me and the dewy-eyed dog in the street. Or I thought it was just the two of us until I heard slow and steady clapping. I whirled around and saw Boba standing in the doorway of our house. How much had he seen?

Boba crouched down to get a better look at the dog’s sores. His lower lip had been torn and one of his nails snapped back. Boba clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth in pity.

People are God’s cruelest creations. They’ll step on the smallest of backs to feel an inch taller.

Boba, are you angry? I asked.

Very, he answered. And disappointed.

I bit my lip, nervous.

I came out because I heard the ruckus. I saw you stomp on that boy’s foot. That was disappointing.

Because I shouldn’t have confronted them?

Because you didn’t need your father’s help, he said, rising to his feet. Now, let’s set this poor dog free.

As if offended by the conversation, the dog growled. I took a step back, shocked. The dog shook his head and bared his yellowed teeth.

But I helped him, I said, feeling betrayed.

Boba took the rope from my hand and held the dog at arm’s length.

Don’t expect him to bow at your feet because you saved him today. He’s saved himself every other day of his life.

As I was shuttled from one office to another, from one curious stranger to another, I couldn’t help but feel like that stray dog. Men and women asked me a hundred recycled questions, prodding me like a nine-year-old boy wielding a stick. I had no escape. I spent the first night in a room at the airport where I was alone for such long periods of time that I feared I might have been forgotten.

The morning started with more questions from the same man who had seemed most doubtful about my story.

“Please, I want to see Tilly. Please,” I begged.

By the next afternoon, I was in a car.

“Where we go?” I asked the woman escorting me out of the building. She had a large leather bag hanging on her shoulder, bulging with papers and a notebook. She too had a name badge clipped to her sweater. Ann, it read. Child Protective Services. Documents were so important to Americans, it seemed, that they pinned them to their clothing for all the world to see.

“We’re going to a hospital,” Ann replied, and my spirits soared. Finally, I would be with Tilly. I was eager to see how much she’d recovered since I’d watched her being loaded into the ambulance, her skin mottled.