He knew this wasn’t possible. The door did not close completely because the doorframe had warped and the brown carpet squares that looked like wire-haired dachshund fur were too thick. For the door to close even halfway, you had to lean your entire body weight against it as if you were trying at all costs to prevent someone outside from pushing in. And yet, no one ever wanted to come in here; no one except for Mr. Rödder and me ever wanted to come into the bookstore’s tiny, windowless, musty back room.

Even without the two of us, the room was completely full. Along with a folding table holding a coffee maker, it held old fax machines, discarded cash registers, rolls of crumpled promotional posters, and display stands.

In the midst of all these things lay Alaska. Alaska was old, much older than dogs generally grow to be. It seemed as if he had been allotted several lives and was living them one after the other without dying in between.

Mr. Rödder hated Alaska. He hated it when I had to bring him with me to the bookstore. Alaska was clumsy and shaggy and enormous and gray. He smelled like an unaired truth. Every time I came in through the door with Alaska and countless excuses and apologies, Mr. Rödder reached for the aerosol can next to the cash register without a word and filled the room with Blue Ocean Breeze air freshener, but it wasn’t much help. “It doesn’t work with this wreck of a creature,” Mr. Rödder always said after spraying Alaska and shooing him into the back room. “These living conditions are not at all suitable for the species,” he would say when Alaska lay down between the many broken objects, and he would say it with as much indignation as if he were talking about his own life, not Alaska’s.

Because of Alaska, the tiny back room was filled with the odors of dog and blue ocean breeze from a spray can. Mr. Rödder and I stood close to each other and, as with every time we were both in this room, it was unclear how we had found enough space among the clutter. It always seemed that we hadn’t come in through the door that didn’t close but had been deposited here by some giant hand that had raised the roof and carefully fit us in the room without having to remove anything.

“I have to speak with you about something,” Mr. Rödder said. His breath smelled of the violet pastilles he was constantly sucking because he was afraid of having bad breath. He had even offered Alaska some, but I argued that they weren’t suitable for the species, and Alaska had ignored them. Mr. Rödder’s breath smelled of old funeral decorations and I didn’t dare tell him that this, too, was a kind of bad breath.