If only Dad hadn’t bought Mom that widescreen or had at least stopped cracking eggs all over the place, Mom wouldn’t have thrown him out, I’m sure of it. He must regret that to his core. If regret changes anything, it should change that.

I hear the front door open. One of Diesel’s ears springs up. His tail thump-thumps. Alpha Male!

“Hello in there!” Dad whistles as he continues into the house. Whistling Dad means cheerful Dad. He strolls into the kitchen, grinning.

Diesel barks hello and runs toward him. I stand up and rush toward him, too. Diesel and I collide.

“I’m so happy to see you, Dad.” I hug him and Diesel jumps on him.

The way Dad reacts will tell me what’s up. If he lives with us still, he will eyeball me and chuckle, then say something like “Get up earlier and you’ll see me more often.”

Instead, Dad hugs me too tightly. Desperately. “Me, too, Naomi.”

Darn.

Diesel wags his whole body.

Hello. Hello, Alpha Male. The words bark in my head. Diesel flips over, in what looks like a breakdance move. Pat me. Pat me. It is good for your blood pressure.

My brain feels like a dried-up sponge. I swallow hard, return to the table to grab my glass, and go to the sink to refill it with water. I’m imagining things, have to be. All that stuff, the dog dying, me jumping off the dock, drowning — crystal clear as it is in my head, none of it can be real. After all, I’m here. The white pinch mark from my fingernail has turned blue now.

Still, why do I hear Diesel’s thoughts inside my head?

I will talk you through this. Everything will be fine. I can save you.

I gulp more water down, then take a breath. Mom has to leave soon. I need to pull myself together. What time is it anyway? I check my watch and start to shake.

Mist and droplets of water cling to the inside of the crystal. I tap the glass, but the display reads THU July 01 4:30. Next Thursday. My brain swirls. Can this be part of some brain damage thing? I blink a few times. The date stays the same. I look around, but no one seems to notice my confusion. Only the dog.

The time counter stopped. Diesel tilts his head, sending his thoughts into mine. Our life counter. Stopped just for now. We can make it start again after I save you. Don’t worry!

4

Friday, June 25:

The Here and Now

But it’s not the watch I worry about. While I tap at the buttons at the side to reset the date and time, Dad continues talking and patting Diesel’s belly. “Diesel, you sure are something.”

Diesel flips back over and licks at his lips. I love you. He licks at his lips some more. I miss you and our games of tug and ball.

Dad always said that lip-licking was Diesel trying to answer us. Mom would argue that he was just hinting for treats.