The vet then squatted next to Rob and placed her hand on his shoulder.

“Mr. Nutley, I’m very, very sorry.”

“I don’t understand. Are you saying I have to put her to sleep?”

“Mr. Nutley,” the woman continued, now closing her eyes for a long blink. “She’s already gone. It was her time.”

Rob felt himself begin to cry. It had been years since he’d let out tears and this was the second time tonight. The dampness on his face felt alien. He used the collar of his T-shirt to wipe the moisture from his cheeks.

“It wasn’t her time,” he said angrily. “She got crushed by a medicine cabinet. That’s not natural causes.”

Rob noticed a middle-aged man and his daughter staring at him from the other side of the waiting room. The girl held a sleeping rabbit in her lap. Her eyes were red, as if she was preparing herself for similar news.

“Sir,” the vet said, shifting her body so they were facing each other. “It wasn’t just the accident. She was a very sick dog. Even if a cabinet hadn’t fallen on top of her, she wouldn’t have had long. You did all you could. I see in her file that you helped her live much longer than another owner might have. You have to let her go now.”

“The fucking IKEA medicine chest,” Rob said, tears now rolling down his cheeks, his shoulders jerking. “I put it up with, like, one goddamn screw. It’s got to be about forty pounds. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Many owners would have put her down months ago. You took very good care of her. There is no blame here. She’s no longer in pain now. She’s with God.”

Rob peeked at the shiny gold cross hanging from the vet’s neck. He’d never been religious, but he was comforted by the veterinarian’s assumption that Liz was in heaven. He didn’t believe in heaven for people, but when Liz first got sick, he liked to imagine that she’d eventually experience a better afterlife where she could eat chocolate without vomiting and live a life without seizures.

“Do you know exactly how long she would have lasted if this hadn’t happened?” Rob asked the vet quietly. “When would she have just died, you know, naturally?”

“There’s no way of knowing. Months maybe. Maybe a year. Maybe weeks. There’s no way of predicting these things. Mr. Nutley, is there someone we can call? Someone who can meet you here and help you make some decisions about what to do with the body? Is there someone who can help you get home?”

Rob thought of Lucy, but she was long gone. And even if she was still around, she wouldn’t have been much help. Lucy Barber had no empathy for the weak.

Then Rob thought of Hannah, who by now, he figured, was probably drowning in self-pity, or perhaps prosecco that she was calling prosciutto. He suddenly longed for her, remembering how he used to feel when he lounged next to her in bed, how she’d shower after her walk home from the bars on Marshall Street and would come out smelling like vanilla and baby powder. “A cake made of linen,” he’d tell her, sniffing her armpits as she giggled. He remembered how they talked so effortlessly, how he sometimes avoided drinking on their sleepover nights so he could better enjoy their conversations. He also remembered the cold mornings, how the boundaries were immediately reset when the sun rose.