Chapter 4: Clinton Street

"Your sign says walk-ins welcome," I said.

"The sign is aspirational," Ben said. "We open at ten. It's nine forty."

He went back to the pug.

I stood in the doorway and couldn't move.

He had the same way of holding a stethoscope, with his thumb on the bell to warm it before it touched the animal.

The same cardigan over his scrubs, the green one with the hole in the left elbow.

In my last life, I'd slept in that cardigan. He used to leave it on the radiator for me.

"Breathe," he told the pug. "Come on, buddy. In and out. You can do it. I've seen you do it."

The pug snorted wetly.

"See? Gifted."

A woman came out of the back hallway with a mug in each hand.

Tall like him, dark hair in a claw clip, reading glasses on a chain.

His sister.

I knew her before Daisy's memories could tell me anything.

She'd fed me tuna from her lunch every Friday for nine years.

She'd called me a little freeloader.

"We're closed, hon," she said.

"He said," I said. "I'll wait."

"It's twenty minutes."

"I've waited longer."

She shrugged and handed Ben his mug.

I watched him take a sip.

Three sugars, no milk, and he'd let it go cold before he remembered it.

My eyes stung so suddenly I had to look at the bulletin board.

LOST DOG. FREE KITTENS. YOGA FOR SENIORS AND THEIR CATS.

"Are you okay?" his sister asked. "You've got a bandage on your head."

"Somebody threw an ashtray," I said.

"At you?"

"Very hard."

She looked at me differently after that.

At ten exactly, Ben carried the pug out to its owner, came back and leaned on the counter.

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