Refilling the hole was too easy. In under a half hour, the ditch was gone and Liz’s body was blanketed in dry bits of earth that Rob patted down and smoothed with his hands. He felt as though he should say something, even though he was the only one there.

“I loved you, girl…,” he started, and then stopped.

Rob realized that he didn’t need to tell Liz he loved her; there was no need for silly proclamations of his loyalty and affection. Even if she were still alive, there was nothing Liz ever needed to hear from him. She’d understood his intense devotion. He might owe explanations, apologies, and clarifications to many of the humans in his life, but Liz had never been confused about his intentions. They’d always been pure. He’d always made her needs a priority.

Instead of continuing a funereal speech, he thought about the Liz Phair song that was on the radio when he first found her, and which inspired her name.

For the second time that night, he sang, doing his best to remember the lyrics to “Supernova,” a song he barely liked. It made him feel a little better, so when he was done with Liz Phair, he moved on to all the songs that had made Liz jump around the apartment—not just “Hurricane,” but Bruce Springsteen’s “Rosalita” and “Born to Run.”

Eventually Rob’s teeth were chattering, so he stood up and went inside, allowing his last song to be Dylan’s “Love Sick.”

Rob’s phone, which he’d left in the house during the trip to the animal hospital, was blinking on the table by the front door. There were four missed calls from Hannah. He smiled weakly at the sight of her name and wrapped his arms around his chest.

He was tempted to dial her back and tell her what had happened, but the thought of it was overwhelming. He looked around the living room. A pile of magazines had fallen off the couch and onto the floor. Somehow one of his teetering bookshelves had collapsed, probably from the force with which he slammed the door on his way to the hospital. The mess of books made a small mountain. Two plastic IKEA screws had rolled out into the center of the room.

Rob didn’t have the strength to clean the room. He thought about taking a hot shower, to clean himself, but he remembered that his tub was full of broken glass and dog blood.

The small house was too quiet. Without Liz, there were no footsteps on the wooden floors and no heavy breathing coming from the bedroom. Rob walked into the kitchen and looked down at the half-eaten bowl of dry dog food that Liz had pushed into her water dish. Bloated pieces of the kibble floated on top of the liquid. He closed his eyes and considered his options. Sleeping wasn’t one of them. He was exhausted but wired. He knew what he wanted to do. He walked purposefully to his laptop and turned it on.