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Holding her hair back with one hand, I soothed the other up and down her spine. “Maybe the chicken was a bad idea.”

She snorted, or scoffed, or laughed. I couldn’t tell. It ended in another eruption of chunky liquid into the toilet.

I kept rubbing her back, holding her hair, and she kept puking.

After a while, she wadded together some toilet paper and wiped it across her lips. Hunched over the bowl, she breathed hard and fast. “I’m sorry.”

Sounded more sober than she had all day.

“Don’t be.”

Silence set in again. She still held the tank of the toilet. She still crouched over. Her breathing slowed, and the sweat gathering at the base of her neck began to dry.

After a while, I gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Do you think you’re ready to elevate that foot?”

“Might want to keep a trash can nearby.” She straightened, leaned back, and turned her head toward the ceiling. Eyes closed, the breeze of the fan overhead fluttered the damp curls around her cheeks. “After I brush my teeth.”

I stood, grabbed the toothbrush from the cup on the sink, ran it under the water, then squeezed some toothpaste from the medicine cabinet onto it. Squatting, I handed it to her. “Probably best you don’t stand on that foot.”

Her eyes did that glittering thing again. It didn’t last, neither did the hint of a smile. But it was better than nothing.

She brushed, spat in the toilet, and laid the toothbrush on the edge of the counter.

I stretched out my hand, she took it, and once she was on her feet, she leaned against me. Each step we took was measured, cautious. She stayed on the heel of one foot, and the tips of her toes with the other. She didn’t cuss under her breath or quip with sarcasm. Just leaned against me and let me walk her to her bed.

When we made it there, I pulled back the comforter and sheet. As she lay down, I glanced back at the door, then along the hardwoods. Despite the many times I informed all of my patients not to let their dogs jump on the bed, especially a senior pup with arthritis who was more likely to tear a ligament, that was where I expected Honey to be. She wasn’t, though. Wasn’t on the floor either.

I craned onto the tips of my toes to look on the other side of the bed. Still no sign of her.

“What are you doing?” Gwen asked, pulling the blankets over her sweat-dampened skin.

“Looking for Honey,” I said. “I don’t want her going out to the kitchen and stepping on the glass.”

Rolling onto her side, Gwen cuddled the blankets close to her face. “She’s under the bed.”

“Oh.” I crouched down, and sure enough, there she lay. Tucked deep in the back, the early signs of cataracts glinted gray across her dark brown eyes. “Does she always go down there?”

“When she’s scared.” Gwen yawned. “She thought we were fighting. She hides when she hears fighting.”

Chest tight, my eyes burned.

Why had I never thought about that? Honey was eight years old. Gwen had told me she was her only owner. That meant that Honey had lived through what Gwen had lived through.

Gwen carried her baggage in a neat sack over her shoulders. A padlock held the flap of it shut. Today, an article or two spilled, but from only a corner. A glimpse of the mound she kept so carefully locked away.

Honey, it had always seemed, was unfazed by their past. Maybe I just hadn’t paid enough attention.

I kneeled again, holding back the blanket for a better view. “It’s okay, Honey. We’re not fighting. Come here.”

She stayed put.

“She’ll come out once we quiet down,” Gwen said, the same sadness and grief that I heard during her speech this afternoon tinging her voice now. “You don’t have to worry about the glass either. I’ll get it later. Just shut the door.”

Was that her way of telling me to walk through it? To shut it behind me?

“Alright,” I said. “But unless Simone or Rhiannon or someone else comes to keep an eye on you, I’m not leaving.”

Eyes heavy, chafing skin around them like blush, she shook her head. “I don’t want you to leave.”