“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.”

We both laugh a little—that humorless chuckle people give when the next sound might be a cry.

*   *   *