“What do you mean?”

“You have no idea how hard it was.”

“I think I do. I fed my son oatmeal for dinner often enough.”

“That was your own fault. You left home; you got pregnant and left your husband. Now you think you can swan back here and take over.”

This leap from simple conversation to attack makes me think my earlier impression—that Adele was showing signs of dementia—was more accurate than mean-spirited.

“I’m not taking anything over.”

“We needed those rents, Justine. We still do.”

The tiny hospital room is filled with the mechanics of keeping my father alive. Adele sits at his side in the only comfortable chair. I am perched on a closed commode. The air is tainted with the scent of disinfectant and bodily functions. The single window, a solid pane of immovable glass fretted with wire, throws a glare into the room, so that the white of the thermal blanket and the white of Adele’s hair appear haloed. I throw back the rolling commode and leave the room. I’m done here.

Once again, I wish that I smoked. I could join the small band of hospital employees huddled across the street, puffing on cigarettes, flicking ash into the gutter. A couple of them sip from paper cups. There’s a small coffee shop halfway down the block from the hospital entrance, and I find myself jerking the door open to the sound of clanging bells. I order a large coffee to go and then wonder where I’m going. As I pay, my cell phone rings. I wonder if my heart is going to keep leaping like this every time it does. It’s Troy.

“I found him.”

“Mack?” I have to lean against the faux-marble counter in order to keep on my feet. My heart bangs against my chest with an audible thump. Mack!

“No. Sorry. Rockin’ Roadie. His rig blew a rod and he’s been cooling his heels in Worcester for the past few days. One of my regulars was on the horn with him just this morning. Got a location, if you want it.”

I will not let my optimistic mistake show. I shove too much money into the hand of the barista. I grab a small table and a napkin. “Shoot.”

Troy gives me an address and simple directions to the A-1 Truck Service Center.

“Troy, did your guy mention if Artie still has my dog?”

“I would have said that first. No. Course, he didn’t ask him, either, so maybe he does.”

I hold back the disappointment. “I owe you, my friend.”

“No biggie. Just go find him. Let me know what happens, okay?”

I know where Artie is. I’m a couple of hours away from tagging him. My only problem is, how am I going to get there?

*   *   *