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a Coke.”
    “Or water.”
    “Or Coke.”
    She heaved a sigh, but nodded as she exited the highway and pulled in at the gas station slash convenience store.
    * * *
    So he didn’t want to stay with me. Fine, he could fucking stay by himself and take twice as long to heal if that was what he wanted.
    I was sitting on my living room floor, working on my second vodka and Diet Coke, my poor blind bulldog lying with her head on my lap. “It’s actually kinda nice to have the house to ourselves again, isn’t it, Myrt?”
    Myrt’s reply was a great big sigh. She’d been heaving them every few minutes, in between pacing the house looking for Joshua. Her buddy. She couldn’t stand that he wasn’t here. It was mean, that’s what it was. Mason shouldn’t be mean to a poor defenseless bulldog. Myrtle had gotten used to having the kids around. Every afternoon we’d make cookies or brownies or something, so when they got off the bus and came in the door they’d have a snack. I mean, I remember always being hungry after school when I was a kid, so why would they be any different, right?
    Myrt would hear that school bus coming a mile away and jump to the door and stand there wiggling from her nose to her stump of a tail, waiting for the boys to come through.
    It was heartbreaking to see her so dejected.
    Poor dog.
    I hadn’t packed up the boys’ stuff yet. I figured I’d tell them they had to do it themselves. That way they’d have to come back and spend some time, and Myrtle could get her groove back. I’d phoned the school from my car to let them know the boys would be taking the bus back to their old place from now on, and to drop them off there starting today.
    When I drove Mason home I’d gone in for a few minutes to make sure he had everything he needed. He asked me to stay for dinner, but I said no, that he’d want to get acclimated and stuff. His mother had already filled his freezer with meals. I’d seen her several times while the boys had been my roomies, because of course she had to come by a couple of nights a week to try to talk them into staying with her instead.
    Poor Angela. She was kind of stiff as grandmothers went, kind of cold, but she loved the kids in her way. I hope I’d managed to convince her that they liked my place better simply because of the lake out front, the dog they adored and the super short ride to school. They could’ve taken their bikes, if they’d wanted to. (They hadn’t.)
    Anyway, I knew Angela had stocked Mason’s freezer with casseroles, lasagnas, meatballs, mac and cheese, and God only knew what else. So I got him home and kissed him goodbye, then made my excuses and headed home.
    I’d pretty much been moping ever since. He’d really hurt my feelings by not wanting to stay with me, and I was really good and pissed at myself for being such a fucking whiny ass.
    Sighing, I got up and poured myself another drink. Myrtle followed me, then left my side to wander from one room to the next again. She paused at the stairs, sniffing, but didn’t go up. Not only was it not in her nature to exert herself unnecessarily, but she probably knew the boys weren’t up there without climbing the stairs to find out. Her other senses were as sharp as mine. She sighed again, plodded back to our spot, and together we sat down. I grabbed the remote, flipped on the TV.
    A news crew was ambushing some guy who was trying to get out of his pickup and into his front door, and the female reporter and her camera guy were apparently doing their best to keep him from getting there.
    “If you didn’t set that fire, then who did?” said the reporter, who then thrust her microphone into his face and I was pretty sure bonked him on the nose with it.
    Wait a minute. Fire?
    “No comment.” He pushed the mike away with one hand and sidestepped the camera. He was an average-looking guy, beer belly that overhung his belt, typical blue work pants, plaid shirt tucked in nice and neat. He had a ruddy