I have imagined this moment for a week. I have pictured myself grabbing Artie by his filthy shirt and shaking him like Mack shakes a rag doll. I’ve pictured myself screaming at him, calling him foul names, even slugging him. I’ve imagined him defiant, aggressive. What I haven’t pictured is the sheer surprise on his pug face when I suddenly reappear in his life. The entrance to the lounge puts me exactly in his sight line. At first, he looks at me as men often do, with that “Well, well, what have we here?” look of a man who has no idea how unattractive he is. Then he recognizes me. Then his expression drains from recognition to realization. Here in the flesh is the woman he abandoned on an Ohio highway, the woman whose dog he stole. Artie looks right and left at the two guys in the room with him, as if looking for back up in a shoot-out at the O.K. Corral. They are also looking at me, but their interest fades as something important happens on the muted television. They cheer, throwing themselves out of the plastic chairs. Artie and I face each other.

“Hello, Artie.”

“Justine. Hi. How are you?” Artie sweeps off his gimme cap and squeezes it between his hands. I feel like I’m looking at an actor portraying an embarrassed man. But Artie’s color deepens, going from his normal gray pallor to the color of meat that’s gone bad.

“Where is my dog?” I have gone from sweating with anxiety to feeling ice-cold. The room, even on this September day, is air-conditioned. But it’s more than that; I am solid with the ice of fear, fear that he’s about to say something that will wreck me.

Behind me, the silent television no longer holds the interest of the other two men. Suddenly, Artie and I are of interest.

“How’d you find me?”

“Where is Mack? Just tell me.”

“Tell her, man. What’d you do?” These two strangers get off their chairs and flank Artie. I manage a grateful smile at both of them, a nod to their chivalry.

“I don’t know. I don’t know where he is. He, uh, ran away.” Artie keeps looking behind me, as if I might have a Hell’s Angel tagging along.

These two strangers, one a little older than a boy, the other a man old enough to be my father, step closer to Artie.

“That’s crap, Artie, and you know it. What have you done with my dog?”

“You’re the guy, the guy who ditched a woman and stole her dog.” The younger guy points a finger at Artie. He looks back at me, looking for confirmation. “Is he?”