The sitter finally arrives, a scrawny teenage girl with braces that look like they could tune in Mars. I bend down to give Tony a kiss good-bye. “Be good for…”

“Molly.” The girl has the good grace not to roll her eyes at me. All these Mollies and Shannons and Morgans blend together, an unending supply, courtesy of the local high school.

“Mom?”

“What, sweetie? Mommy has to go; I’m late.”

“I don’t need juice boxes.”

* * *

I still have a few minutes before boarding the bus bound for Boston, so I thumb the number for my pal Saundra Livingbrook. Saundra is the one who got me involved in canine freestyle, and she is the sole support of six dogs, all rescues. I can hear them in the background as she answers my call, sounding like children clamoring for mom’s attention when she’s on the phone.

“He is chipped, isn’t he?” Saundra is talking about the microchip embedded beneath the skin between Mack’s shoulders that identifies him as my dog to anyone with a reader.

“He is.” I take small comfort from that fact. He’s with Artie, and who knows what Artie will do with him. If Mack is picked up by a dog officer or dropped with a vet, then I have hope. But I simply can’t imagine that Artie will do anything thoughtful like that.

“Let’s think about this. I’ll post the story on my Facebook page and get the word out to as many rescues as I can. It’ll be like putting up posters all over the country. He’s a Sheltie, so I’ll make sure that Sheltie rescues have his information.” Saundra has to control a pack of dogs, so she’s no stranger to getting things done.

“If you could do that, it would be great. Candy is trying to find out specifically where Artie is going and see if she can get help at that end. I’m boarding a bus and won’t get to Boston till tomorrow morning. And I’ve got my father to deal with.”

“How is he?”

“If my stepmother is to be believed, on death’s doorstep.”

Saundra has known me long enough that I’ve let her in on some of my history. I don’t do that too often; usually, I speak of my past in safe generalities. It’s not that my story is particularly interesting or rare, but I don’t really want to think about it. I prefer talking about the now. The past is like a series of black curtains; each one covers the essential scenes of a life that only in the last half decade has become less damaged. A tough childhood, single motherhood. Bad choices and better ones. Just like everyone else. So, I keep myself to myself except with certain people, friends like Saundra, whose life hasn’t been that famous bowl of cherries, either.

* * *

Mack awakens from his wolf sleep with a jolt. The truck is moving; there is no light but the stars that flee past in the night sky. They are climbing, and Artie shifts the lumbering vehicle to gain more power. The cab is fetid with the miasma of greasy, farting man and cigarettes; the driver’s window is down a crack, not enough to let in sufficient fresh air, only a vague trickle of breeze. Then the truck levels off and almost immediately noses down the long incline they have just climbed. Just as Mack feels the truck speed up, Artie downshifts to slow the pace.