Chapter 18: The Loan

On Sunday adoption days, Dorothy Lane smelled like wet fur and coffee.

The rescue coordinator had set up six crates along the front windows, and a line of families curled past the register toward the treat aisle.

My father stood in that line for forty minutes.

I watched him from behind the counter, ringing up a pug leash for a woman who wouldn't stop talking.

He did not leave the line.

Twice he stepped aside to let somebody go ahead.

He picked up a bag of dental chews and put it back, and picked it up again.

He was the only person in the building without a dog, or a child, or a reason.

The retired teacher, who came every Sunday for the senior discount, whispered to me from the next register.

"Is that your father?"

"Yes."

"He looks like he's waiting to see a doctor."

"He is," I said, and handed her a receipt.

At ten o'clock, he reached the front of the line.

Eleven customers stood behind him, and six more were in the treat aisle, listening without looking.

The man who had once told me to tell my dad to go to hell was holding a bag of salmon bites near the end cap.

My father set the dental chews on the counter and did not let go of them.

"Hello," I said.

"Hello."

"Is that all?"

"No."

He took a breath.

It was the one he used to take before he told a story at a party, but this time it shook on the way out.

"I'd like to ask for a loan," Dad said.

The store went quiet.

The pug in the crate by the window stopped barking.

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