“That’s Brad,” I said, pointing to the dog. He immediately stopped running and sat, like he was showing us just how well he knew his name.

“That’s Brad?” Stevie said, then frowned. “I guess now that does make a little more sense—that he would cry when we left.”

“You might want to tell Mallory that she should use a few more specifics when talking about her dog.”

“Seriously,” Stevie said. “Also, Brad? For a dog’s name?”

“And this dog really doesn’t look like a Brad.” Maybe unable to contain himself after hearing his name so many times, Brad jumped up and ran over to Stevie, who cautiously put her hand down.

“Nice doggie,” she said, giving Brad a very unconvincing head pat. “Good… boy.” She straightened up and brushed her hands off. “We should probably get going.”

I glanced at the clock on the microwave. It was only a little after five, so I had a feeling this was more about getting away from the dog and less about our timeline. But we still wanted to go to the Drama Book Shop and get something to eat—and getting to the Echo Theater early might be a good idea. There hadn’t been online ticketing for the show, and what if it sold out?

“Good call,” I said. I bent down and smooshed Brad’s fluff down, giving him a back and neck scratch—it was honestly hard to tell where any of his body actually was, as the floof was all-encompassing. “And you’re a good boy, aren’t you? Hmm?” I must have hit a good spot under his collar, because his back leg started thumping. “Yes, you are!”

“All right,” Stevie said, looking down at her phone. “So, weirdly, because of traffic, to get to the bookstore, it’s like a twenty-minute car ride, a twenty-minute subway ride, or twenty minutes on foot.”

“So maybe we should just walk?”

“I think we should walk.”

Brad suddenly bolted, running full speed back into the bedroom where he’d come from. “Okay, bye,” I called, trying not to be hurt. Clearly, what Mallory had said about him crying when we left was not true.

“Ready?”

“Yep,” I said. Stevie opened the door, just as Brad returned, but now carrying a leash in his mouth that dragged on the floor behind him. “What’s—” I started, but didn’t get to finish, because the dog kept going, running straight out the open door.

“Oh my god,” Stevie said, and then we both ran after him.

“Brad,” I called, and I looked down the stairs to see, in a panic, that he was already two floors down, on a step looking up at me. “Stay, okay, buddy? Just—stay.”