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one way Aunt Rose was ever going to notice me; one way I might be able to persuade her to help.
     
    #
     
    Aunt Rose was right. She’d never actually said it, but it’s true. A dog can break your heart.
     
    #
     
    “Five minutes,” I said. “Five minutes, or maybe not even that if anyone finds out.” The papers shook in my hand. My fingers had dug into them, claw-like, gripping too tightly. “But you have to sign first. And it has to be witnessed. We’ll find a couple of nurses to do it.” She stared at me. Mostly she stared at the ceiling, but this time she never took her eyes from mine. Hers were small, the pupils constricted, the pale blue almost blending with the greyish whites of her eyes. It was horrible to see, but I didn’t look away. She was family, after all.
    If there’s any way you could help—he has to start school next week. He needs a uniform. I’ve been offered more hours but it means I can’t be with him. I’ll have to leave him with a neighbour, and he screams the place down when I’m not there…
    I shook the thought away and forced myself to focus on the will. “Are you going to sign it?”
    “But—”
    “You don’t need to worry about Sandy.” I thought about how he’d been that morning, watching me leave, his head poking through a gap in the curtains, his tongue lolling in a wide doggy smile. I forced myself to stroke her hand. We both looked down at our fingers. “I’ll make sure he’s okay.” I thought about telling her about his love, how he had enough for everyone; about how he’d be comforted. I stopped myself just in time.
    “Will you sign?” I repeated.
    Her head rolled away, but I could still make it out when she nodded.
     
    #
     
    Back at the house, I read the letters once more. It wasn’t so much the words that got to me, but their frequency. My mother had written to her sister once a week. Her hope—no, her faith—had never wavered. Family; she had believed in family, in their love.
    Sandy rested his chin on my knee while I went through the letters, and occasionally I paused long enough to stroke his head. His fur there was a little shorter but softer than on his back. Long whiskers jutted from the side of his head, besides the ones that grew around his nose; others formed extra-long eyelashes. I listened to him breathing, the little catch where the air was constricted in his throat. His posture must have been uncomfortable, but he still didn’t move.
    Sandy was a big dog. He wasn’t the kind that could be smuggled inside a handbag or under a coat. He was big and full of life and anyway, he loved me now.
    But a promise is a promise.
     
    #
     
    The last time I visited Aunt Rose was the first time I’d seen her smile. I got there a little late, because by then the nurse at the door tended to be occupied with other visitors. I waited until she turned her back before I slipped down the corridor and into Aunt Rose’s room. It was easier than I’d thought, though my heartbeat felt as if it would trigger alarms. I listened to the steady beep—beep—beep of my aunt’s monitors, and calmed myself. Her rhythms sounded strong and steady, as they had for the last couple of days; as they had since I made my promise. A turn for the better , the nurses had said. Who knows . . .?
    I pictured it, Aunt Rose back in her house, in her favourite chair, the dog gazing up at her, adoration in his eyes. It wouldn’t happen. It couldn’t .
    I shook my head. A promise is a promise, especially to family. Because promises to family are mainly unspoken, aren’t they? The ones about love, especially. The ones about help.
    I smiled when I turned to face my aunt. She was sitting up in bed, looking brighter than she had in days. Her eyes were shining; there was joy in them. She knew I’d keep my promise—that was what families did—and now I was here.
    “Where is he?” she asked.
    My smile became a little wider. It took her a moment longer to see the expression in my