“Yeah, I did,” he says. “Coffee?”

TWENTY-THREE: SHANNON

SUNDAY, OCTOBER 15

People walk dogs off leash in the woods all the time. You aren’t supposed to. And mostly it’s fine, but sometimes a runner will complain, or a hiker will call a dog vicious. I was afraid of having Buddy loose. His look scared people—his big square pit head, his strong jaw. Even though I knew him to be nothing but gentle, he had a prey drive that made me nervous. He’d lunge unexpectedly. I’d seen him kill a squirrel in the yard, his head whipping back and forth, the squirrel screaming.

When it was dead, he dropped it, and then rolled it over with his nose, trying to coax it into playing with him.

I didn’t want Bear there. I could do it alone. It was better alone. Gathering my things, explaining things to Birdie in a way she would understand. She always understood more than I gave her credit for.

But I couldn’t get away from him. His hand, even, steering my neck as we walked. I was afraid my mother would notice.

Inside the woods, Buddy bounded off, straight toward the house, and I was afraid that he’d overpower Birdie if she was out. Not that he’d hurt her. But he’d knock her down for sure. He might frighten her.

But the dog stopped on the porch, hovering near the door and barking. He leaned forward, front paws outstretched, not in play, and barked over and over, sharp, staccato warnings.

“Buddy,” I said. I was glad then that I’d taken the gun and hidden it. The last thing I needed was to have my mother shoot the dog right in front of me. Or Bear. Because maybe this time she’d hit her intruder dead on and kill him.

“Buddy,” Bear scolded the dog, calling him back, but he wouldn’t budge, not even then, and he was usually scared of Bear. He just stood in the doorway, braced and barking.

The door was wide open, the screen bent backward, flat against the clapboard, and I could see the shadow of a bird inside, banging against the window, trying to find its way out.

“There’s a bird,” I said to Bear, and pointed at the dark form fluttering on the other side of the glass.

“Buddy,” Bear called again. He got close enough to pat the dog on his side, a thick, closed thud.

“I can get it,” I said. I’d done it before. The last time I’d tried guiding the bird out with a book, waving at it, but it just confused the bird, so I got close enough to cup its tiny, beating body. It was a catbird. A small, round, gray bird with a nearly transparent beak and tiny, sharp claws.

Bear pointed at Buddy and told him to wait. Buddy bared his teeth as he barked, snapping. I’d never seen him like that. Bear crossed the threshold into the house and stepped inside, looking for the bird, back and forth from room to room, but then stepped out.