“Puttin’ on the Ritz” jangles on my cell phone, startling us both. It gives Ron an exit and he disappears into the fog, leaving me alone at the edge of the yard. Crickets are all wound up, droning their September song as I look at the display. It’s Mitch, my one-legged violinist. I take three rings to collect myself, to find the voice that won’t sound cloudy with emotion.

“Hey, Mitch.”

“How’s it going?”

We sound like two adolescents with nothing much to say.

“My father passed today, so we’re at my stepbrother’s, eating.”

“My condolences.”

“It’s fine.”

If only my father had said something to me, just let me know that he had taken take my side, even if I was the only one to know it. It’s too late. It’s like trying to turn the Titanic to give up my hardened sense of injustice. “The funeral’s on Saturday. Then I guess I’ll head home.”

Just saying that pains me. I tell Mitch about finding Artie, about how Artie’s scared to death that the Hell’s Angels are on his trail. For a split second, I wonder if Mitch will think I blame him for what Artie’s done. I don’t, not really. I don’t mention socking Artie in the gut, but I do tell him about the truckers. And then the threatened tears win the battle and I sob into the phone that my dog is most likely dead on the MassPike.

“Justine, maybe not. This may sound weird, but I think I saw your dog on Facebook.”

“It’s probably one that Saundra put up. We’re in a lot of her YouTube clips.” I don’t want an image of Mack; I want Mack.

“Except that the woman with the dog isn’t you.”

This stops me. I knuckle away the tears. “What?”

“I’ve sent you the link. You just look at it and see for yourself.”

“Mack isn’t the only dancing Sheltie.” I can’t allow myself false hope.

“I’m not asking you to get your hopes up, but don’t you want to see this?”

There is a moment of silence between Cleveland and here and I hear the Vineyard ferry horn blasting. Mitch doesn’t want me to get my hopes up, but he offers me hope by telling me that someone is dancing with my dog?

If Mitch is right, that this online Sheltie is Mack, somehow safe, it means that I can’t leave until I exhaust every avenue in finding him. I don’t know how long Candy will keep my job open, but I’ve quit plenty of jobs for far less compelling reasons.

“A silver-and-black Sheltie, big white ruff, one blue eye, one brown?”

“Justine, go look at the video.”