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briefly lit.
    â€œNo,” I say. “But I love dogs.”
    â€œYou love dogs. Okay. So let’s say one of these dogs you love disappears. He’s just . . . gone . Would you want to come to some lady’s office and drink tea and chat about how he disappeared? Or would you want to be out there ”—she jabs her thumb toward the door, her words rushing out in a frustrated hiss—“where you had at least a fucking chance in hell of finding him?”
    â€œI’d want to be out there,” I say immediately. And I’d like to think it’s true. I’d like to believe that if I thought I could find Toby somewhere in the city, I wouldn’t hesitate. I’d grit my teeth through the galloping heart, the breathlessness, the fear. I’d walk the streets until I found him.
    Anya must have thought I was going to say something else because now she sits back, studying me through narrowed eyes. After a beat of time she stands and slings her large bag onto her shoulder.
    â€œIf Henry gets in touch with you again,” she says, “just let him know I was here. I told him I’d come; I didn’t tell him I’d stay.”
    â€œSure.”
    I know how to keep my expression calm even as my mindraces. My boss at Philadelphia Hospital was always eager to tell me that it can be dangerous to become too invested in your patients. There’s something to be said for emotional distance, he warned me over and over again. Distance is necessary for the process. I was never very good at heeding his advice, which was undoubtedly why he spent all that time repeating himself. I can’t afford to lose patients, but more importantly, everything about Anya—her anger, the hollow, haunted look of her face, the sadness that lurks below, not to mention her blatant disregard for basic hygiene—worries me. I want to help her. I have to help her. I can’t let her leave.
    â€œBefore you go,” I say, “do you have a picture of Billy? I could send it to the animal rescue organizations that I’m connected with and check if anyone has seen him.” I say this casually, like it’s just an idea.
    Anya hesitates. Then she shifts her bag and begins rifling through it. “Here.” She thrusts a photocopied flyer toward me. I’m hoping she’ll sit again, but she just stands there watching me as I study the piece of paper.
    The words BILLY RAVENHURST IS MISSING blare from the top of the flyer in big block letters. And then: $100 REWARD FOR ANY INFORMATION . Below this line is a photograph of a dog leaping through the air, his face turned so that he looks head-on at the camera. The wind is caught in one of his cheeks, endowing him with an elastic, cockeyed grin. I’d been envisioning Billy as a stoic shepherd or a rough-and-tumble pit-bull mix—something to match Anya’s hard-as-nails exterior—but it turns out he is small and scrappy with bristly white hair, mischievous black eyes,and—even when flying through the air—more than a passing resemblance to Albert Einstein.
    I look up from the flyer and smile at Anya. “Are you a photographer?”
    â€œNo. I used to take some photos, but not anymore.” She crosses her arms. “Whatever. They’re just pictures.”
    I set the flyer with Billy’s photograph on the table and tap it with my finger. Anya’s eyes move over it.
    â€œThis doesn’t seem like ‘just a picture’ to me,” I say. “I feel like I know Billy, just from looking at it. It’s wonderful. I’d do anything to have a photo like that of my dog, Toby.”
    Anya looks at me.
    â€œHe died,” I say. “Ninety-nine days ago.” I feel something unspool within me, bouncing out of reach. I haven’t told any of my patients about Toby, and I don’t know why I’m telling Anya. The words just come out.
    When I force myself to look up, Anya’s expression