Keith said it sounded like two explosions—one loud, the second deafening—and when the dust finally settled, he was on his back in a hospital bed, and his body—and his life—had changed forever.

If all else failed, I’d start to edit there, in room 213 at Presence Saint Joseph Hospital. I’d blur the face of the surgeon so it wouldn’t haunt me for months to come, or maybe I’d lift the corners of her mouth as she broke the news, making her say Keith’s chance of walking again was 30 percent, not three.

I could’ve taken thirty.

But three?

She could’ve just said zero.

With the whiskey glass in hand, I left the bedroom and walked into the kitchen to place it in the sink. Then I moved into the living room, making sure to leave the lights off so as not to wake Shelby, our three-year-old honey-blond boxer. She wasn’t actually sleeping—I knew it, and I’d bet my tips from the night that she knew I knew it. But this had become our nightly dance: me restlessly navigating through our dark apartment while Shelby pretended not to notice. Some nights, I sat on the couch and read or sketched; other times, like tonight, I’d take a shower and head back out the door. I tiptoed past her quilted doggy bed toward the bathroom, bending down as I passed to look at her face. In the thin trail of moonlight that slipped through the window, I could see her eyes were closed, just barely, as she lay there sprawled on her stomach.

“Yeah, right,” I muttered, loud enough for her to hear as I stood back up, because I am, for better or worse (but really just for worse), the kind of person who engages in passive-aggressive turf wars with her dog.

Getting a dog had seemed like a good idea before the accident. Keith and I had talked about kids and knew we’d be pretty good parents. But we also knew deep down that we’d be okay if it didn’t happen. We had nieces and nephews who adored us as Uncle Keith and Aunt Paula, the artists from Chicago. He had the addictive, rumbling laugh; I let them eat brownies for dinner sometimes. Keith was a swim coach by day at nearby Morton College, and he made amazing ceramics by night; I painted portraits for private collectors, a job that made us feel wealthy in good months and practically destitute in bad. We ordered out constantly and drank a bit too much wine on weekdays, but we worked. We didn’t know what children would do to that equation.

But a dog?

We could handle a dog.