Buddy nudged the side of my face, hungry, impatient.

The dog didn’t know the difference. He’d forgotten the trauma of the blood. I was just his other owner, the one in the passenger seat, the one on the left side of the bed.

My mother’s truck was parked in the last spot, under a pine tree. I fished my keys out of my pocket and walked over to it, while Bear put his phone away and called out to me.

“What are you doing?” he asked, suspicious.

“Taking my own car,” I said.

When he looked at me, blank, searching, I said, “I’ll meet you there.”

I went around the park and drove slow up and down the hill of Mill Street before I went up Fountain. Baby Jane’s remained closed up tight, the way it had been the last time I was there. The blinds without an inch of light coming in or out, the yard neat and empty. A newspaper sat, damp and rolled, on the concrete step.

Back at his house, Bear asked me to make him a drink.

“Of what?” I asked. My head felt stuffed with cotton.

“Whiskey,” he said.

I stood in front of the bar. There were three different types of whiskey and a variety of glasses. I always drank straight from a small, plastic bottle. Usually Canadian Club, usually with Baby Jane. I picked up a bottle called Angel’s Envy and poured it into a heavy-bottomed glass.

“Make it how?” I asked, stupid.

Bear hunched over his phone on the island. “Just put ice in it, honey.” He was texting quickly, with both thumbs, and then swiping over the glass, deleting as he went.

I put the drink on the island. “What’s going on?” I asked.

“Nothing,” he said, and frowned before he looked up. “Meghan,” he said.

I was about to ask him how often he saw Bee but couldn’t get the words out of my tight throat. I plunked down on the stool across from him and held my head.

“What am I going to do?” I asked.

Bear pushed the drink at me.

“You’re going to take a drink,” he said, “and a deep breath, and relax.”

I didn’t know who he’d talked to or what he’d said. He’d made the phone call far away from me, with his shoulders hunched and his back turned.

“What did you tell them?” I asked.

“Who?” he said.

“Nine-one-one,” I said.

“Just to check the welfare,” he said.

“What does that mean?”

“You know,” he said. “If you haven’t seen a neighbor or you think a kid is at home alone. You ask the police to come check the welfare of the occupants.”

“Did you say that?” I asked. I felt my hair stand on end. “Did you mention her?” They were going to find her. It was going to be over. I had no idea what that meant for me. Or her.

“No,” Bear said. He held up his hands in surrender.