He only stands there, nodding as if to say Of course you have. Then he snaps his fingers, and the dog’s attention shoots to him instantly. “I get the feeling you can’t screw up here. See the markings in her face and her reddish color? She’s got Belgian Malinois in her. Not many breeds smarter or more intuitive. That’s why they make good police dogs. They partner with humans to make a team.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I was a trainer once, in another life. I’d put her age at four or five. She’s lost muscle from living on the streets, but seems healthy otherwise. You’ll want to get some raw protein in her and not just kibble. Salmon oil is good for her coat and vision.”

“Clay…” I’m backpedaling, fumbling for another argument, but his attention is back on the dog. Kneeling at her side, he runs a steady, knowledgeable hand from the top of her skull to her tail and back while the dog submits to his touch.

“Yep,” he says quietly, still bent over. “Some breeds are hardwired to know what we need before we do. She’s good and sound. Strong, too. Can’t imagine asking for a better partner.”

I don’t need a partner, something in me wants to insist, but even I know how thin the excuse is. How blatantly untrue. “I can’t believe this is happening,” I say instead.

“Yeah.” Clay chuckles. “Life’s funny that way.”

He walks with us as far as Rotary Park, where his girl, Lenore, waits at the picnic bench in the same outfit as before, Seahawks sweatshirt long as a skirt, her hair like a dense blond scribble above her lined forehead.

“Oh, good,” she says in a low voice. “You’re okay.”

“Thanks for sending Clay to look for me.”

“I thought maybe you ran into trouble.”

“No. I’m fine.” I look back and forth between them feeling inexplicably grateful for their presence. We don’t even know each other, and yet we’re here.

“What’s your dog’s name?” Clay asks me.

“Good question. Too bad she can’t tell me.”

“Oh, she can. Just not in English.”

—

I reach Mendosa’s Market only minutes before it closes, leaving the dog in a down-stay just outside the door while I look quickly and in vain for salmon oil. They have only tinned sardines and anchovies. I buy both, plus a fillet of salmon, almost luridly pink against the white butcher paper as the clerk wraps it, and dog food—wet and dry.

My items are rolling down the conveyor belt when I notice Caleb, his arms full of groceries.

“Hey.” His eyes flick over my purchases. “You have a dog?”

I feel flustered for some reason, almost embarrassed. “I’ve rescued her. I must be crazy, right?”