In the late afternoon Sean walked me to Francine’s house. “That kid loves you,” he said.

My head hurt.

“She’s not home anymore,” I said. “I’m not supposed to tell you that.”

“It’s in the vault.”

“I feel guilty.”

“About?”

“Leaving her? That I’m here and she’s back with this woman who isn’t the best. Not the worst, either, just…”

“Not great?” he said carefully.

“Not great.” I’d never been so worried. Or more to the point, let myself admit I was worried. About Zola. About anyone.

Sean took my hand, and we walked. He didn’t tell me not to worry. Didn’t tell me it wasn’t my problem. And I knew if I’d said one word about launching some scheme to go to the city and rescue her, he would have either gone along with it or found a way to do it right.

“Thank you,” I said.

“For what?”

“Everything. Nothing.”

“You’re welcome?”

At Francine’s house I used my key and called out to Francine, who did not answer. “Want some water?” I asked Sean, on the porch taking his muddy shoes off.

In the kitchen I froze.

On the floor, half of him under the breakfast table, Terry Johnson lay still, eyes open, in a pool of vomit.

“Francine!” I lifted Terry’s head, held his face in my hands, and looked into his eyes. “Sean!”

“No car, she’s not here— Oh no.” He knelt beside me. The vomit was sparkling, shiny bits of colored foil reflecting light. Wrappers. “Chocolate,” he said.

I’d left my Easter basket on the table.

I choked back sobs and pressed my fingers through Terry’s scraggly fur to feel for a pulse in his neck. Sean listened near his snout.

“He’s breathing,” Sean said. “Barely.”

“We have to make him throw up again, how do we make him?”

“Here.” He tossed his phone to me. “Google it, I’m calling the vet.”

“The number is on the fridge.” One hand on Terry, the other thumb-typing, I called Francine first.

Where is she?

Her familiar ringtone (“White Christmas”—all year long) came from her phone on the sink beside the refrigerator. I Googled dog poisoned and read about pouring hydrogen peroxide and water down Terry Johnson’s throat.

“Are his gums gray?” Sean asked. “The vet says pull his upper lip back.”

Gray. I nodded through sobs.

“Okay,” he said, trying so hard to stay calm. “They say be really careful but pick him up, because we need to go. Now.”

“Terry, wake up….” My chest heaved. No car, how would we get to the vet? “Sean, call your mom!”

“Not home.”

“Kira!”

Sean scribbled a note to Francine and snatched a blanket from the couch, wrapped Terry Johnson like a baby, and three minutes later Kira barreled in a cloud of dust down the driveway in her mom’s car.