“How long will that take? I have to catch a bus for New Bedford in…” I look at my watch and the elastic band in my gut takes one more twist. “In fifteen minutes.”

“Ten minutes. I’ll get someone to take you to South Station.”

In my life, I have come to the realization that time really doesn’t stand still and that there is no way I’ll make that bus if I stop to fill out a report on a man who will never be found. I don’t know if the bus ticket is transferable to another time, but I do know that if I don’t show up at noon, I will endure the wrath of Adele. “Will filing a report help catch him?”

The guard shrugs. “It’s a start. It’s the only thing I can do.”

“Okay.” I walk down the cement steps to the ground. The guard now towers over me, and I feel like a captive as we head toward his little office. As we walk, I tell him my story. About being left, about Artie driving off with my dog. About trying to get to New Bedford before my father dies. About wanting my dog back and Artie drawn and quartered. He listens, and once inside, he’s quick to call a cab to whisk me back to South Station even before he pulls out a form.

“Name, address, cell number or number where we can reach you.” He’s moving as fast as he can. “Theft of dog valued at?”

How can you put a value on Mack? What he means to me. He may be a puppy-mill dog, but he is everything to me. “Ten thousand dollars.” What I mean is, priceless. I wouldn’t take a million for him. But if I don’t exaggerate his value in terms that mean something to a guy sitting in a guard’s booth all day, can I trust that he’ll take me seriously?

The guard looks me in the eye, weighing my exaggeration. “Have you gotten a ransom note?”

“No.” I start to explain that I don’t think Artie would think of that and then stop. If it’s a clear case of dognapping, then maybe the authorities will do something. “I’ve been on the road, so how could he send a ransom note?”

“Okay. His name? Address? Make of truck? Rig?” The guard peppers me with questions I cannot answer. I sound like a jerk. I can tell him that the guy likes Camels, that he drinks Red Bull like it’s orange juice, that he prefers redheads to blondes, and that when he’s not on the road, he hangs out at Candy Kane’s bar, bragging about his string of ex-wives. No, I don’t know who his agent is. If I did, I’d know how to find Artie. I think this but don’t say it. I need this guy. Getting snippy now won’t do me any good.

The cab pulls up. I dig into my pocket to find my last ten. “You have my number. Please don’t hesitate to call me, even if you don’t think it matters.”