Chapter 24: The Corner

The corner unit on Wilmington Pike had green paint on the door and a ribbon across it that Ben refused to let anyone cut before nine.

It was the twenty-fourth Good Dog Supply, and it had the best window of any of them.

The bank had sold the plaza in the spring, and nobody called it Kreutzer Holdings anymore.

I parked my plain white van across two spaces at 6:45 a.m., because it was big and it was mine.

It had no logo on the side, and no bow on the hood.

It had a dent in the sliding door from a pallet jack and a dog hair problem I had stopped fighting.

Ben was already inside, on a stepladder.

"Hold this," he said, and handed me a hammer.

On the counter by the register sat a flat package wrapped in brown paper.

I knew what it was before I opened it.

My mother had taken it to a framer on Dorothy Lane the week after Thanksgiving, and she had paid for it herself.

It was the birthday card, flat under glass, with the cartoon dog on the front.

Inside, my handwriting said *Scratch me first,* and under it, in block capitals, *HALF TO VICKY IF IT HITS. GARY KREUTZER.*

Beside the card, pressed in the same frame, was a small square of soft gray napkin.

*Tell her thank you first.*

I stood the frame against the wall behind the register.

"Left a little," Ben said, from the ladder.

"It's not a sign, Ben."

"Everything's a sign. Left."

I moved it left.

"Level?" I asked.

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