Ed wanders the aisles, sliding his readers on and off as he examines the molly bolts; ponders the wisdom of the larger can of 3-in-One. Even so, it takes only minutes to find everything he needs. As he heads between aisles to get to the register, he spots the pet supplies.

There are fluorescent collars, nylon collars in pink, purple, blue, and black; varying widths of collars, choke chains, and something that looks like a tiny halter. They’ve been using a length of clothesline to walk the dog, but maybe they should at least buy him a collar and leash. He’s going to be with them only until his rightful people are found, but still, a proper leash and collar wouldn’t suggest that if they don’t find his people, he’s staying.

Ed stands long enough over the selection of leashes and collars that a salesperson finally takes notice. “Do you need help?” The clerk says this with the same voice she likely uses on her kids when they reach for the cereal. This is probably her job while they’re in school. Mother’s hours. Where are the men? When did hardware stores become a woman’s domain?

“No. I’m good.”

There are collars with gingham patterns, collars with little paw prints. Whatever happened to simple leather collars adorned with metal buttons? Here there are spike collars, thick macho ones.

“Are you looking for a training collar, or just something to hang his tags on?” The clerk, persistent, strums her fingers along the array of collars hanging by plastic hooks. They move like a rainbow-colored curtain.

“We’ve got him only until his owner is found. I guess I won’t be hanging any tags on him, but I’m sure not going to be training him, either. I just need something we can use to walk him.”

The saleswoman taps a finger to her lips, then pulls down a flat red nylon collar. “This’ll do, and it’s cheap. And the chain leashes are a bargain.” With that, she walks away to greet a woman gripping a list.

Ed looks at the collars for another minute, puts the red one back and picks out a black collar with a rolled edge. He finds a matching black nylon leash. The dog, wherever he came from, isn’t a red collar kind of dog. Then Ed pulls a dog brush off the rack. This one says it’s meant for longhaired, double-coated breeds. Alice has been brushing the mats out of the dog’s coat with an old hairbrush of hers. She still wears her hair bundled in a twist, a light fringe of bangs framing her face. In that way of random thoughts, Ed thinks of the nights when Alice pulled the pins out of her hair and let it fall like it did when they courted, curtaining them as they kissed. That stopped happening a long time ago.

As an afterthought, Ed selects a squeaky toy shaped like a hydrant.

His route home takes him along the Moody River, but Ed’ll turn off before coming to the old pistol factory, where a two-hundred-year-old dam holds back the Moody River, at one time forcing it into powering the old factory. Alice’s great-great-grandfather came from England to work in that factory. Just like Ed migrated west from Boston to work in the screw-machine plant 150 years later. This late in the year, a day or so before the autumn equinox, the stream is shallow and hardly looks to be moving. It bifurcates around rocks littering the streambed. In the spring, the river is high with snowmelt and the rushing water can be dangerous even when the fishing is the best. In a moment, Ed sees the ruins of the old factory and signals his turn.