Chapter 4: The Golden Retriever

At six in the morning I crossed the street in my robe and knocked on the window of his truck.

The glass came down.

Sullivan had a thermos between his knees and a blanket over his lap, and he looked like he hadn't closed his eyes.

"You've been out here all night," I said.

"I didn't want anyone else coming up your steps."

"The only person who's come up my steps is you."

"I know."

"You rented a house, Sullivan. With a bed."

He looked at the steering wheel.

"I can't sleep in it."

I waited for more, but nothing came.

His face closed up, and I let it go.

"Go home," I said. "Sleep for three hours. At eight I'll meet you at the post office with the swabs, and you can watch me put them in the box."

"Carina."

"What?"

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For the porch last night. For saying it to my face."

"I said it because it's true," I said. "Don't make it sound like a favor."

At eight we stood in front of the blue mailbox outside the post office, and I dropped the envelope in the slot.

Sullivan watched it go.

Then he nodded once, and I went to work.

I run the front desk at a vet clinic on the east side of Asheville.

It's a good job with a good boss, and the clients bring in everything from hamsters to a three-legged goat.

I had been there five years, and it was the first place in town where nobody asked me about Rosetta's father.

By ten I'd answered the phone a dozen times and not heard a word anyone said.

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