“She’s a patient at Mercy Memorial,” I say. “He was trying to find her.”

“That’s sad,” she says. “Can you keep him until she gets out of the hospital?”

Mrs. B and I look at each other. Then she says, “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

The woman—her name tag says Tamara—studies us for just a minute too long. Does she see the frayed collar of Mrs. B’s coat and the purse strap held together by duct tape? Does she see the one room I share with my little brother and mother and father? Are we somehow branded as “homeless”?

Finally, she asks, “When will his owner be out of the hospital? Do you know?”

We shake our heads. “Soon,” I say, hopefully.

“And when she does get out of the hospital, do they have a home?”

My stomach knots up. She knows. We shake our heads again.

Tamara sighs. “We can hold him for two weeks. After that, he’ll be put up for adoption.”

“But you can’t,” I say. “Baby is all Jewel has in the world!”

Tamara smiles. “Is that his name? Baby?” Her eyes soften. “Look, Baby will get very good care while he’s here. Plenty of food and a bed to sleep in. We’ll give him a bath and get him all up to date on his shots.”

I guess that all sounds good, until she says, “He’ll actually be better off here than living on the streets with his owner. Being homeless is no way for any dog to live.”

All of a sudden, I feel like I’m channeling Ree. I don’t care if this lady has figured out we live in a shelter. We’re here to help Baby. I pull myself up tall and say, “Just because a person doesn’t have a home to live in doesn’t mean they don’t love their dog or cat as much as someone who lives in a fancy house! And just because they live in the park, that doesn’t mean Jewel isn’t somebody. She is, and Baby needs her.”

Mrs. Bailey puts her hand on my shoulder and squeezes. I can feel the blood pounding in my ears.

Tamara smooths some papers on her desk. She nods. “I understand.”

She steps out from behind her desk and smiles. “Would you like to see him?”

My heart lifts up. “Yes, ma’am, I sure would.”

Mrs. B and I follow Tamara down a long hall, through the cat room (so many kittens!), and through a door to the kennels. Row after row of big dogs, small dogs, some jumping up against the chain-link wire cages, others sleeping or huddled in the corner. Some look hopeful, some look like they’ve given up all hope of anything good ever happening again. I want every one of those dogs.

“Here we are,” Tamara says, stopping next to a kennel at the end.