Mostly, Lemon watched the witch’s place, and Jane hid upstairs, typing her thesis.

One Wednesday, a new dog, a male Weimaraner, appeared in their unfinished yard and played with Lemon for hours. Merle worried that Lemon was in heat, and Jane said she would make an appointment with a veterinarian. Later, after some drinks, Merle argued that it might be wonderful to have a litter of game dog puppies. They could sell them. Papa asked him if he was out of his fucking mind and stomped off to his rowboat.

In heat; ah, the mysteries of the language. They were given a brief, nondramatic explanation from Dee, of all people.

“Every mammal has a penis or a vagina, and mating is the way a species survives. So they’re compelled, you see. They can’t resist. When Lemon is ready to breed, she’ll put out a special smell, and if a male dog notices it, he’s going to do everything possible to have her. And we don’t need puppies this summer. She’s only a baby and she should have a childhood.”

The visiting dog’s tag read Ham Armstrong. The family must have lost him on vacation, said Jane, dialing the phone. She left a message with a maid. But when the Armstrongs called back, the conversation was confused. They lived in Connecticut, on the far shore of the Sound. It was twenty miles as the crow flew but eighty or so by land, through the city. Edmund measured out the miles, and while they looked at the map, Polly thought for the first time of the shape and enormity of the city.

Clearly, Ham had hitched a ride. The Armstrongs—eyeing the rundown house, intimidated by Papa—fetched Ham, and Lemon went back to watching Dwight and May and squirrels. Two sections of the fence were unfinished, but Merle planned to deal with them that weekend. He was short on wood and facing the semester’s midterm week.

On Saturday morning, Merle tied Lemon up when he headed out for lumber. Polly and Edmund went down to the beach a little later, and on their way they passed Ham, dripping wet, all joy. When they returned, the dogs were next to each other, really on top of each other. Merle, parking the Ford, was close to tears.

“They’re fucking locked up.”

Locked up—the words of love didn’t always fit. A hazy horror filtered in. “You can’t get them apart?” asked Polly.

“It takes a while,” said Jane, doing laundry. “I’ll need to take her to the vet now.”

Ham was retrieved that evening. There was no other explanation: He’d swum across the Sound. His owner wouldn’t pay the bill for Lemon’s spaying, but they would build a stockade.

“The dog swam for love,” said Dee at dinner.

“I did that,” said Papa. “The first time we were alone near water.”