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wavers and straightens itself so quickly that I wonder if I imagined the change. But then she’s walking back toward the couch. When she sits down, I’m relieved.
    â€œMy brother Clive thinks I’m dog crazy,” she says.
    â€œIn this office,” I respond, deadpan, “we call it ‘dog normal.’ ”
    Anya’s lip twitches. Is that the beginning of a smile? I sense something shifting between us. The line was a joke, but I was also serious. It’s important that my patients know they aren’t alone in caring deeply for an animal companion. Our dogs see us at our best and at our worst, and love us with unparalleled devotion through it all. We share our lives with them. They know ourdeepest, darkest secrets, things that sometimes our closest human confidants don’t even know. No one should feel ashamed for caring for another being, for feeling heartbroken when a friend is gone. What is more “normal” than love?
    I add Clive’s name to my notebook and ask Anya if people have responded to the flyer.
    â€œYeah,” she says, “but nothing pans out. Henry thinks the reward is too high—it’s pulling liars out of the woodwork.”
    â€œWhy do you think your brother suggested you see me?”
    Anya rolls her eyes. “Suggested? Forced . He said if I didn’t come talk to you he’d tell my grandmother that he’s worried about me—about my mental health . My grandmother is old and sick and the last thing she needs is to get worked up over me. Anyway, I think Henry just feels guilty. He’s moving to Los Angeles next month and he’s trying to tie up all the loose ends before he leaves. If he makes me come see you he can tell himself that he tried to help me.”
    I jot down a note about her grandmother, and another about her brother moving away. “Are you close with Henry?” I ask.
    She shrugs. “I guess.”
    â€œWhy do you think he’s concerned about you?”
    Anya begins biting the nail of her pointer finger, which is when I notice that all of her nails are bitten down to the quick. Some are bloody, others just ragged.
    I ask her if she’s having trouble sleeping and her eyes shoot to mine.
    â€œWould you be sleeping if your dog went missing?” she asks. “If you just came home from work one day and he wasn’t there?”
    That explains the dark circles. I don’t blame her; sleep hasn’t comeeasily to me lately either. When I finally drift off in the early hours of the morning, I always hope I’ll see Toby in my dreams. I never do, waking only with an empty feeling, his absence highlighted.
    From the look of Anya’s scarecrow limbs and the hollows below her cheekbones, I’m guessing she isn’t eating much either.
    Instead of answering, I ask, “Is that what happened? You came home and Billy was gone?”
    â€œYeah, but he didn’t run away. He would never do that. I walk him without a leash all the time and he never goes more than a few steps away from me.” She starts playing with her coat zipper again.
    â€œIf he didn’t run away, what do you think happened to him?”
    â€œSomeone stole him.” She juts out her chin, challenging me to argue.
    â€œThat’s terrible! Did someone break in? Was there . . . was anything else taken?”
    â€œNo, no.” She looks away, her shoulders slumping. She takes a deep breath, and when she speaks again she sounds exhausted. “I know what you’re thinking. Who would steal an old mutt? Believe me, my brothers have all been sure to tell me how nuts I sound. But nothing else makes sense. Billy wouldn’t run away, so someone must have stolen him. He’s somewhere in the city and I’m going to find him.” She tells me that she’s been walking through the city, looking for her dog, every morning of the last twenty-four days.
    I can’t help but agree with her brothers;