I laugh out loud. The relief is amazing. She’s still Adele.

She directs my making of the tuna sandwiches from the amount of mayonnaise to the way I cut the sandwiches. I ignore her and make it my way, lots of pepper. I plate the sandwiches, find an open bag of chips, and wrench open the antique avocado-colored refrigerator to hunt down something to drink. The first shelf is filled with some sort of protein drink, chocolate- or vanilla-flavored. Something intended to supply calories to a person with no appetite. I slam the door shut and fill two glasses with tap water.

How do you make small talk with someone who has always seen you as a burden, a pain in the neck, an unfortunate price to pay for happiness? Am I such an outcast that she can’t bring herself to talk to me? Then I wonder if it is simply hard for her to talk about my father, to tell me what’s been going on. She called me, called me here. But now she has nothing to say to me?

It’s up to me to get things started. “How long will he sleep?”

“I don’t know”

“Is he in pain?”

“Sometimes.” She looks at me as if I have asked the most personal of questions. The hostility coming from this withered apple doll is less frightening than it was when she would focus her pale eyes on me when I was a teenager. Those looks were sharp and hurt as much as it did when she grabbed me by the bare arm and dug her fingernails into my flesh. “The morphine helps.”

That’s about as much conversation as either of us wants. So we eat in relative silence, politely passing the chip bag back and forth.

My cell rings. The sound of it startles both of us. A quick glance at an unfamiliar number and my heart starts to beat. It’s a 617 area code. Boston. It’s Troy.

“No one has seen a dog, but a couple of the guys recognize the Rockin’ Roadie handle.” Troy has been as good as his word. He’s talked to truckers from all over, asking about the dog with Arthur Schmidt. I have to be satisfied that Artie or his road moniker is at least known, even if no one has seen Mack.

“Thanks for trying.” I’m certain that the disappointment shows in my voice.

“Truckers do not take kindly to men who mistreat women or animals. No they don’t. Word gets out, he’s a dead man.” He sounds vaguely like a cowboy, and I kind of think that he’s not correct in this estimation. I can hardly believe that these hardworking drivers are that interested in my problem.

But I do appreciate what he’s saying and tell him so, wondering why this stranger is doing this for me. I wonder enough to ask him.

“I have a dog, ma’am. If anyone ever stole her I’d kill the fucker. Pardon my French.”

“No apology necessary. It’s what I intend to do if I ever catch up with Artie.”