Mitch smiles and those blue eyes, just the color of the sky on a bright fall day, light up and he is suddenly quite lovely.

His room is only one floor up, but we take the elevator. I can see us in the mirror that lines the walls. I fit neatly against Mitch’s side. My hair is scrambled and I watch myself struggle to fix it. I watch Mitch watching me, so I keep the worry off my face as the questions rise with the elevator.

Do I know what I’m doing? Is this a good idea? Am I simply giving in to all my bad impulses that I have worked so hard to control?

All questions cease when the room door closes behind Mitch and he takes me into his arms in a decidedly not-for-comfort-alone manner. We make love and then I am out cold.

*   *   *

Room-darkening drapes make me think that’s it’s before dawn when I finally climb out of the deepest sleep I’ve enjoyed in two weeks—dreamless, cocooned in the comfort of a hotel mattress and surprisingly cushy pillows. The length of a good man beside me, but respectfully on his own side of the bed. I reach for him and can’t find him. Sitting up, I hold the sheet to my chest like a ravished virgin and see Mitch sitting at the little table provided by the hotel, thumping away at his laptop, his head moving to something on his iPod. A pair of crutches rests against the other chair. I wake up and smell the coffee. He’s been down to the complimentary breakfast and brought up food. On one leg. Amazing man.

Mitch closes his laptop, winds the earphone cords around his iPod, and pushes his chair away from the table. I take that as an invitation. He takes me onto his lap and wraps his arms around me. “Pack your bags, lady, and let’s get outta Dodge.”

“Do you always talk like someone from the Wild West?”

“That’s the Wild Midwest to you.”

“Where are we going?”

“To find your dog. Look.” Mitch turns the laptop so that I can read what he’s found while I’ve been sleeping. “Found, small collielike dog. Gray and black, one blue eye, one brown. Call…”

I nearly weep. “That’s got to be him. Where is he?”

“This is the Moodyville Press. I’ll Google Moodyville; you call the number.”

I wonder if the hope on my face will blind Mitch. My hand is shaking as I punch the number. I misdial twice before I get all ten digits right.

“You have reached Ed and Alice Parmalee. Please leave your message…”

Her voice. The one on the video, the one that calls my dog “Buddy.” Alice. Ed and Alice Parmalee. I know where my dog is.

“Mrs. Parmalee, my name is Justine Meade, and the dog you found”—I actually have to take a breath—“is mine.”