Page 155 of Lorenzo

“You want me to let you outside?”

His tail sweeps across the floor in confirmation.

I unlock the door and pull it open. Cool air spills into the kitchen, brushing over my bare feet. Mocha bounds onto the back porch, then stops at the bottom of the steps and looks back.

The yard beyond him is larger than I expected, stretching behind the house in a wide sweep of grass bordered by trees and a tall wooden fence.

“You are outside,” I point out when he just stands there.

After a moment, I step onto the porch. The boards are cold beneath my feet.

Mocha turns at once and races across the yard. He disappears briefly into the darker grass near the fence, then comes charging back with a faded rubber ball clamped between his teeth. His ears bounce with every stride, and his tail swings high behind him.

He stops directly in front of me and pushes the ball into my hand. It is damp, slightly chewed, and coated with a thin layer of dirt.

I grimace. “This is what you wanted?”

Mocha backs away several paces and lowers his front legs, watching me with complete concentration.

I throw the ball across the yard.

He launches after it before it leaves my hand, his long body stretching into the run. He reaches it near the fence, scoops it up without slowing, then wheels around and races back.

The ball lands against my palm again.

I throw it farther the second time.

He tears across the grass, quick and powerful, paws digging into the ground as he changes direction beneath the ball. He catches it after one bounce and returns with the same eager focus.

By the fourth throw, his tongue hangs from the side of his mouth.

By the sixth, I have stopped grimacing at the slobber on my hand.

There is something satisfying about the simplicity of it. I throw. He runs. He returns and waits for me to do it again, his entire body alert with anticipation.

I am reaching for the ball when I remember the reason I came downstairs.

“I still have to feed her.”

Mocha drops the ball at my feet.

I take out my phone, make the call, and arrange for the restaurant to send pasta, bread, and dessert. While the manager confirms the address, I pick up the ball and throw it one-handed.

Mocha sprints after it.

By the time the call ends, he is already on his way back.

I slip the phone into my pocket and keep playing.

A few throws later, I hear a voice behind me.

“He’ll keep you doing that for hours if you let him.”

I turn and see Donna in a robe, hair damp, leaning against the frame of her sliding door. A wine glass dangles lightly between her fingers as she watches.

“He failed to mention that.”

“He always does.”