Today Dad just says, “Good dog,” and Mom doesn’t argue.

Dad reaches into his back pocket for his wallet and turns to Mom. “Got your support money.”

They are definitely still separated. Double darn.

Don’t be sad. Diesel whimpers as he walks over to my chair. We are alive. He puts a heavy paw on my knee and pants happily. Right here, right now.

I shake my head and stare at the watch face. When I fell in the backyard, the watch must have taken a hard knock that somehow changed the date and time. Easy enough to happen, leaning on a button too long.

But what about the moisture trapped inside the face?

Humidity, heat, who knows?

I look at Diesel. What do you mean, life counter?

Diesel whines a short one-note, then jumps on me, knocking the table. I can save you. We can save the pack.

“A demolition derby, that’s what that dog is,” Mom grumbles.

Diesel groans and drops back under the table. “Mom, did you happen to see a Smart Car around yesterday?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

Diesel bumps my leg with his head, hard. Then he puts his head down and I feel the vibration of his growl against my ankle.

“One of those little toy cars? No one around here drives those,” Dad answers.

“Actually, I did see a young girl in one at the drive-thru. They must be very economical to drive.” She shoots Dad a look. For sure, his old clunker is not.

A Smart Car. Darn, it can’t all be just a strange dream.

“Rouuff, rouuff, rouuff!” We will keep each other safe!

“I swear that dog is trying to talk to you, Naomi.” Dad shakes his head as he hands Mom some bills — fifties, twenties, tens.

OMG — if Dad only knew! I try one last time to make sense of what happened.

“Dad, did you take Diesel to the vet yesterday?”

“No. Is it time for his yearly checkup or something, Naomi? ’Cause I haven’t even been for my own physical yet.”

“No. I meant, did Diesel have an accident, hurt himself somehow, and need to go to the animal hospital?”

Diesel barks sharply. No, no, no!

“Look at that! You’re upsetting the dog with all this vet talk.” Dad squats down near Diesel. “C’mon, I’d have told you. Heck, I would have had to borrow from you to pay the bill.” He rubs the tip of Diesel’s ear. “This dog should be in the movies. Could make us a fortune.”

“Sure,” Mom drawls as she counts the money. “The kind where the dog chases something and throws over a buffet table.”

“Well, exactly. Every dog movie has one of those scenes,” Dad says.

“Hmph.” Mom’s lips lift just a little. An almost smile. This is good. Since Dad was let go from the steel company, Mom never smiles at anything he says.

Diesel sprawls underneath the kitchen table, nose between his paws, moon-eyed with innocence. I’m a good, good dog. His eyes look straight into mine, a sliver of white showing. Aren’t I?