The morning had that coppery October smell—wet leaves, cold metal, coffee. The kind of air that makes you tuck your chin into your scarf and walk faster, as if winter is a person catching up behind you. I’d dropped Molly at Dr. Martinez’s office for her Tuesday wound check and rubbed that soft folded ear she leans into my palm every time, the one the groomer says is “charmingly disobedient.”

“Be good,” I whispered as the tech lifted her like a sack of flour. “No flirting with Dr. M.”