The upper room in the front of the house had a wrought-iron balcony. A bigger balcony spread across the back of the house and overlooked the pool and the tennis courts. And beyond that, the dense woods.

Bear parked in the middle garage spot, and the door opened automatically with a whisper. Inside were a kayak, a mountain bike, and a tiny yellow roadster with round mirrors on the sides and the top down.

“How long have you lived here?” I asked.

“Not long,” Bear said, and pointed to the boxes lined up near the door.

A dog came bounding from the backyard to greet us.

“Watch out,” Bear said before I opened my door, and I flinched as the dog approached, barking “He’s exuberant,” Bear laughed. “And he likes men.”

The dog was mostly black with a white blaze and white paws. He was part pit bull, with a big square head but long legs and a thin, athletic body. When I opened my door, he jumped right on me, front paws on my shoulders, licking at my face so eagerly that he hopped on his back feet.

“Buddy,” Bear said, sharp. “Down.”

“Is that your name?” I said to the dog. “Who’s a good buddy?”

“He’s a rescue,” Bear said. “He’s head shy.”

The dog circled my feet in the garage, openmouthed and panting, his tail thumping.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“He’s been hit,” Bear said. “If you raise your hand,” he said, and demonstrated, lifting his hand near the dog’s face, and the dog cowered, wincing, his eyes squinted shut, his shoulders braced for what he thought was coming.

I got it. I was head shy myself. My mother didn’t hit often, but when she did, she meant it. I remember my ears ringing from one thump when I was still really little. She’d caught me with matches. I was just sitting on the porch lighting one after another, sometimes pressing it into a dry leaf and watching the bright edge curl and snuff out, fascinated and thrilled. She clocked me from behind. “Don’t ever,” was all she said.

I crouched down to the dog’s level, and he leaned into my chest like a hug.

“He likes you,” Bear said.

Inside, there was an open kitchen with slate-gray stone counters and light birch cabinets. It looked out over a giant room where the ceiling was the full height of the house. A wall of windows faced the backyard, uncovered. The floors were dark and sleek.

I felt filthy. I leaned and wiped my hands on my jeans, and was afraid to come very far into the house.

“How long has the water been out?” Bear asked.

“A few days,” I said.

“Look,” he said, “I don’t want to make assumptions about what you need. But the bath is down there.” He pointed to where the hallway curved around the back of the living room and into a large master suite. “Why don’t you take a hot shower, and …”