“This is serious,” someone said. And it was as if the saying of this made everything true—our dear brother’s life in danger and all of us lollygagging ineptly on the furniture (all except Barry hunkered low over Maxwell’s head, blowing, blowing). It was like that time when Vincent was five and fell off the roof and only Raymond and Nick were around playing in the yard, and they were too young to grasp the severity, so Vince dragged himself bleeding across the gravel and up the steps into the front hall where he passed out in a lagoon of his little boy’s blood. No one particularly knew what to do then, either. Thank God for Barry. Fortunately, Maxwell was not bleeding. There did appear to be a twig of something green and leafy sticking out from the breast pocket of Maxwell’s blazer.

And quietly came the sound of Virgil’s voice, the humid feeling of his breath tickling my ear, as he brought his face close to mine and complained vehemently, “Fuck. It’s Chuck’s dogs.”

It was the truth. Here dogs came, whipping through the library’s tall eastern doorway, claws viciously scraping hardwood, one fleet Doberman and one shedding English sheepdog, Gunner and Rolfe, off the leash as usual and tearing obnoxiously for Maxwell’s body as if it were a toy for them to pounce on and lick.

“Whoa!” cried Henry.

“Careful!” hollered Arthur.

“Dogs!” yelled James.

“Look out!” warned Simon.

Then both dogs were atop him. Paws flailing Max. Walking on Max’s stomach. Tongues out.

“Grab its leg!”

“Get your hand around the mouth!”

“The other way!”

“Pull them off his head!”

Then the sound of Foster, piercing and distinct: “Leave them alone! They know! They’re trying to help! They want to revive him! It’s what dogs do!” shouted the animal telepathist.

“Screw that,” someone said as, from the direction of the door, the voice of the dogs’ owner, Chuck, a prosecutor for the county and just now following the dogs into the room, commanded, with authority:

“Sit.”

Obediently dogs climbed down from man and came to rest on either side of inert Max. There they stood, two intent and furry guardians watching over his form. Discreetly the dogs peered up at faces glaring down at them and at Maxwell’s face and hair lacquered in dog spit. The botanist’s shirt and my Italian silk tie were gummy with wetness from these dogs’ panting and drooling. Barry’d been knocked back by their lunges and now grumbled a complaint while righting himself. Gunner in his studded collar bared teeth and growled.

Luckily, this animal’s master approached bearing leashes and a pocket stuffed with treats. In that imperturbable, crooning voice dog owners adopt when addressing misbehaving pets, Chuck called, “Easy there, Gunner boy, easy. Gunner, good boy, good dog, easy Gunner-gun, good dog.”

The Doberman became sullen. Chuck produced the snacks. He tossed these through the air toward his dogs’ mouths. Sheepdog and Doberman swung heads to make ace catches without any movement away from Max’s side.