Together we watch Lizzie scramble out of the way as first the shotgun, then Del land at the bottom of the stairs where she was standing. The dog turns to me, its muzzle and honey-coloured fur splattered red with my brother’s blood, and I remember where I’ve seen it before. Not it—her. It was in the dense acres of brush and forest that grow along the edges of the Greatwood. She was there to save my life once before, from another human with a gun, except that time it had been Pinky Miller, my little sister’s best friend.

There hadn’t been any blood then. Just the sick wet sound of Pinky’s head cracking on a rock when she fell, knocked down by the dog.

I wouldn’t be able to hear that now. My ears are still ringing from the blast of the shotgun.

“Did Joe send you?” I ask.

I can’t hear my voice, so I doubt she can either. But I guess I’m thinking the words as I say them, and she seems to be able to talk and listen without the need for sounds, because she answers me all the same.

He asked me to bring him to you, she says inside my head, but we got separated.

I sit down on the top riser. When she comes near, I do the thing Joe said I should never do with her because she’s not a dog, a pet, she’s a person, just wearing a different shape. But I lay my hand on her head all the same and brush her fur with my fingers, trying to get the blood off, but getting comfort from touching her, knowing that she’s real and here to help me, not hurt me.

She doesn’t seem to mind. She doesn’t move away. Instead, she leans in closer to me and then I start to cry. I burrow my face against her bloody fur, sobbing.

I don’t notice Lizzie until I feel a small hand on my shoulder. I look up, then away from the smooth expanse of skin where her mouth should be.

Like everything else that’s gone wrong, what happened to her is my fault. It doesn’t hurt me like the black hole in my chest where the pain over Geordie’s death is lodged, but it’s there all the same. Another ache of sorrow. Of anger at myself that I let all of this happen.

But I’m done crying now. I’m not done with the pain—I don’t think I ever will be—but the tears have stopped.

I sit up straighter, wipe my eyes with my sleeve, then blow my nose on the piece of cloth that Lizzie hands me. I’m not sure what it is. A piece of some old T-shirt. A rag. It doesn’t matter. It does the job.