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ever happened in our lives is always still happening.
    â€œI told Del I was worried about her. She said not to be, that people either make it or they don’t. She was so sad when she said it, Madison. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone that sad.”
    â€œThat’s horrible. It’s like knowing you’re in a coma.”
    Puck chased a golden retriever puppy, much smaller and younger than he. When he caught her, he went down on his front legs, as if he were trying to make himself the same height as her, and then he turned and ran, expecting her now to chase him. The puppy wagged her tail, followed him a few steps, and then ran back to her person. The puppy’s owner, a skinny woman whose face was dominated by bright red lipstick, was interested in what kind of dog Puck was. Madison patiently engaged in conversation with the woman. It’s one of those dog-park etiquette things—abandoning a private conversation in order to exchange niceties and inquire about others’ dogs.
    I stood a few feet away, my eyes drifting back to the cranes. Suddenly, a peripheral blur was followed by bloodcurdling cries. The air filled with vicious snarls and growls mixed with deafeningly high-pitched squeals. A large German shepherd had come from nowhere and was attacking the puppy Puck had just been playing with. The dogs’ bodies tangled into a ball and rolled in the dust like tumbleweed. The shrieking puppy twisted to get away as her owner slapped and kicked at the shepherd, screaming for help. Madison was trying to grab the large dog by his collar.
    I reached into the snarls and cries and scrambling and dust, grabbed the shepherd by his back legs, and yanked them out from under him. The next thing I knew, the shepherd lay sprawled in the dirt, jerking and twisting to get away. I held his legs apart and down as if they were the handles of a wheelbarrow. The woman grabbed her puppy and jumped back. When the puppy was safe, I released the shepherd and he ran off.
    â€œThat was so scary,” the woman said to me. “Thank you so much. I’m going to report that dog to the police.”
    â€œIt’s okay.” I petted the puppy, felt her trembling. “How is she?”
    â€œA little scared and a few tooth marks,” Madison said, fingering through the puppy’s fur. “He mostly got her collar.” She shook her head and smiled at me. “Where’d you learn that trick?”
    I stared at her blankly. I couldn’t remember, and combined with this unnerving incident on this most unreal-seeming day, it frightened me. Because having an answer felt better than not, I shrugged and said, “TV or something.” My body felt strangely disconnected from my words in that way only a lie can effect.
    With Puck between us, we began back down the hill toward our cottage on Elsie Street. As we made our way, I glanced again at the cranes and suddenly recalled once having seen Del’s mother, Pascale, break up a dogfight between their dog Brute and a neighbor’s dog the same way.

Chapter Four
    The red-eye departed San Francisco at midnight with scheduled arrival into Miami International just before nine a.m. Miami time the following morning. My return flight was scheduled for Sunday afternoon, allowing five full days in my hometown. I was taking Gail up on her offer to stay with her. She seemed happy about it—although with Gail, it’s hard to tell. I sipped a Bloody Mary and stared out the window, absorbing the vodka and steeling myself against the anxiety I felt whenever I thought about the onslaught of work I would be returning to.
    I had received good news in a voicemail I retrieved before boarding. Carlos Robles was appointed minor’s counsel for Angie in the Flint v. Baxter case. I knew Carlos was thorough, and I trusted he would keep Angie safe. Still, after seven years of never missing a beat professionally, it was not easy to just let my obligations