He glanced at the other clients in the waiting room. An older woman was talking in a baby voice to an enormous cat, who stared with murderous eyes at the Great Dane across the room. The Great Dane sat motionless—perhaps scared of the cat—while his owner read something on his phone.

A youngish woman—thirty, maybe?—sat with a very ugly, patchy dull white dog of indeterminate parentage, and wiped away tears. The dog (he was 93 percent certain it was a dog) looked really old; its bottom teeth—the ones that remained—jutted out, its eyes goopy. Probably here for euthanasia, Josh guessed.

Its owner noticed him looking and wiped her eyes again. “What’s wrong with your dog?” she asked.

“Oh. Um . . . she was limping before.”

“How old is she?”

“Two and change.”

“She’s pretty. What’s her name?”

“Pebbles.” Interact, Josh, he heard Lauren say. “Yours?”

“Duffy.”

Josh didn’t ask what was wrong with Duffy. He didn’t want to know, frankly, because he suspected he’d respond with, “Big deal. My wife just died.”

The cat growled. The Great Dane whimpered, then tried to climb on his owner’s lap.

“My dog’s really old,” Duffy’s owner said.

No shit, Sherlock. “Really?” Josh said. “He looks great.” White lies were good for the soul, Lauren used to say.

“He’s sixteen.”

“That’s . . . great.” Josh wasn’t aware that dogs lived that long.

“I know he’s old, but . . . I’m hoping for a couple more years.” Her face scrunched as she tried not to cry.

I was hoping for a couple more years, too, lady. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

“Duffy?” one of the techs called, and the woman stood up, old Duffy in her arms, his head on her shoulder like a baby.

“Thanks for talking to me,” she said, looking back at Josh.

It was an oddly sweet thing to say. “You’re welcome.” He should say more. “Feel better, Duffy.”

“Good luck with your dog.” She waved with her bottom hand, and Josh nodded, forcing a smile. If that dog lasted another month, someone should call CNN.

He looked down at Pebbles, who seemed to agree.

Shit. Someday Pebbles would die, too, and that would be it, his last tie to Lauren, the only pet they’d ever owned together. Their fur baby . . . no, scratch that, he wasn’t going there.

But Lauren’s dog, still. “I’m sorry, Pebs,” he said in a whisper. “Sorry we lost her.”

As he suspected, Pebbles was perfectly healthy. “No more than five miles on a run, okay?” the vet said cheerfully, giving him some anti-inflammatory. “It’s great for her, because she’s a working dog and used to a lot of exercise, but she’s bred for it in spurts, not a marathon. Give her a week off, then ease back into it.” He scratched Pebbles’s ears, getting a cow-like moo of appreciation.

“Thanks,” Josh said.

“We were all really sorry to hear about your wife,” the vet added, not looking at him.

“Thank you.” He was grateful for the lack of eye contact.

When he got home, he gave Pebbles her pill and a snack, then went to bed and fell into a black, dreamless sleep.

He was awakened by a pounding at the door, an irritable voice calling his name. Sarah. He stumbled to the door.

“What’s wrong?” he said, opening it.

“I texted you three times and called twice,” she said.

“I was asleep.”

“When did you go to bed?” she asked, her voice bossy.

He glanced at the clock. Hours ago. “Um . . . I don’t know.”

“I thought so. Josh. You have to establish a schedule, buddy. Sleeping for God knows how many hours isn’t going to help you move through this.”

He bit down on a sharp answer. “What can I do for you?” he asked.

“It’s letter day.” She pulled an envelope from her bag. “There are two this time, so I just brought them both. I was supposed to bring this one the other day, but I got slammed at work with an emergency placement.” Which meant some kid had been removed from his or her home, brought to a stranger’s house with a plastic bag of clothes and maybe a toothbrush. She’d told enough stories that he knew. Lauren used to say that Sarah had always been tough, but she had a “heart like a feather pillow.”

“That must’ve been hard,” he said, remembering to be human.

“It was pretty horrible, yes.”

“Why two letters?”

“She dated this one. I don’t know why. Also, I don’t know what’s in those letters. She didn’t tell me, and obviously, I wouldn’t look.”

She handed him two envelopes this time. One said Josh, May 1, the other Josh #3. Her handwriting was so round and sweet.

Lauren had had something to say yesterday. Yesterday, when he felt so alone and forgotten. His heart started thumping harder.

Sarah tilted her head. “You okay, pal?”

“What? Yeah, I’m fine.”

“We should get together. You know.” She shrugged. “Dinner? A movie? An outing somewhere? Let’s hang out. It’ll be good for both of us.”

Her words were a blur. “Okay. Sure. Thank you, Sarah.”

“I have to run. I’m going to Long Island for a conference. I’m presenting a workshop on kinship care. So maybe when I get back.”