“I don’t have anywhere to put all the feelings,” she kept saying. And I felt so bad, because it was the pain she took from me. I loved her for that, no matter what she did. She hates the body. It’s too big and hairy and weird for her. She can’t even wear the clothes she likes, star-spangled leggings, little pink shoes. They never fit. They don’t make those things in the right sizes. Maybe that time at the mall was the worst. It was so sad for her. I feel as protective toward her as a father. I promised that I would try to be that, for her. I know I’m failing. I’m too messed up to help anyone.

I went to the inside house when I needed comfort. Olivia with her little feet and her curious tail was always waiting. Olivia didn’t know anything about the world outside. I was glad of that. When I was with her I didn’t need to know either.

Nothing is perfect, of course. Not even the weekend place. Sometimes things show up I don’t expect. White flip-flops, long-lost boys crying behind the attic door.

I fall silent. We seem to have reached the end. Lauren is gone. I am so tired I feel I might evaporate like water.

“Maybe I should have guessed,” he said. “Champ knew.”

“What do you mean?”

“He likes you. But that day he just went crazy, barking at you in the street. I thought I saw something in your eyes, just for a second. Like someone else was in there. I thought I imagined it.”

“That was Olivia, my cat,” I say. “She was trying to get out. Never mind. We’ll get to that another time.”

The man gets up to leave, as I knew he would.

“Who’s looking after your dog?” I guess I want to keep him there a moment longer, because I won’t see him again.

“What?”

“Your dog,” I say. “You’ve been here for a night and a day. You shouldn’t leave a dog alone all that time. It’s not right.”

“I wouldn’t,” he says. “Linda Moreno is taking care of Champ.” He sees my look of puzzlement. “The woman with the Chihuahua.”

“I thought she was gone,” I say. “I saw flyers on the telephone poles. They had her face on them.”

“Went on an Atlantic cruise,” he says. “With a younger man. Didn’t want her daughter to know. The daughter got worried. But she’s back now. Got a nice tan, too.”

“That’s good,” I say. I felt a spurt of happiness. I’d been worried about the Chihuahua lady. It was good someone was doing ok.

“See you tomorrow,” he says, though I won’t, of course. Then he is gone. He never seems to use an unnecessary word.