My first thought was that he had peed on the floor and was waiting for me to yell at him. But then I realized he was shaking, bouncing back and forth slightly from one of my ankles to the other. “What?” I asked him, and in response he burrowed down farther, pressing himself more tightly against me. All the while, he kept his big bug eyes on me, as if pleading, but for what, I had no idea.

Great, I thought. Just what I needed: the dog dies on my watch, thereby officially cementing my status as a complete blight on the household. I sighed, then stepped carefully around Roscoe to the phone, picking it up and dialing Jamie’s cell-phone number, which was at the top of a list posted nearby. Before I was even done, Roscoe had shuffled across the floor, resituating himself at my feet, the shaking now going at full force. I kept my eyes on him as the phone rang twice, and then, thankfully, Jamie picked up.

“Something’s wrong with the dog,” I reported.

“Ruby?” he said. “Is that you?”

“Yes.” I swallowed, looking down at Roscoe again, who in turn scooted closer, pressing his face into my calf. “I’m sorry to bother you, but he’s just acting really . . . sick. Or something. I didn’t know what to do.”

“Sick? Is he throwing up?”

“No.”

“Does he have the runs?”

I made a face. “No,” I said. “At least, I don’t think so. I just came home and Cora had left this note about the lasagna, so I put it in and—”

“Oh,” he said slowly. “Okay. It’s all right, you can relax. He’s not sick.”

“He’s not?”

“Nope. He’s just scared.”

“Of lasagna?”

“Of the oven.” He sighed. “We don’t really understand it. I think it may have something to do with this incident involving some Tater Tots and the smoke detector.”

I looked down at Roscoe, who was still in full-on tremulous mode. You had to wonder how such a thing affected a little dog like that—it couldn’t be good for his nervous system. “So,” I said as he stared up at me, clearly terrified, “how do you make it stop?”

“You can’t,” he said. “He’ll do it the entire time the oven’s on. Sometimes he goes and hides under a bed or the sofa. The best thing is to just act normal. If he drives you too crazy, just shut him in the laundry room.”

“Oh,” I said as the dog rearranged himself, wedging himself between my shoe and the cabinet behind me. “Okay.”

“Look, I’m breaking up,” he said, “but I’ll be home soon. Just—”

There was a buzz, and then he was gone, dropping off altogether. I hung up, replacing the phone carefully on its base. I wasn’t sure what “soon” meant, but I hoped it meant he was only a few blocks away, as I was not much of an animal person. Still, looking down at Roscoe trembling against my leg, it seemed kind of mean to just shut him up in a small space, considering the state he was in.

“Just relax, okay? ” I said, untangling myself from around him and walking to the foyer to my bag. For a moment he stayed where he was, but then he started to follow me. The last thing I wanted was any kind of company, so I started up the stairs at a quick clip, hoping he’d get the message and stay behind. Surprisingly, it worked; when I got to the top of the stairs and looked down, he was still in the foyer. Staring up at me looking pitiful, but still there.

Up in my room, I washed my face, then slid Cora’s sweater off and lay back across the bed. I don’t know how long I was there, staring out the windows at the last of the sunset, before Roscoe came into the room. He was moving slowly, almost sideways, like a crab. When he saw that I’d noticed him, his ears went flat on his head, as if he was expecting to be ejected but couldn’t help taking a shot anyway.

For a moment, we just looked at each other. Then, tentatively, he came closer, then a bit closer still, until finally he was wedged between my feet, with the bed behind him. When he started shaking again, his tags jingling softly, I rolled my eyes. I wanted to tell him to cut it out, that we all had our problems, that I was the last person he should come looking to for solace. But instead, I surprised myself by saying none of this as I sat up, reaching a hand down to his head. The moment I touched him, he was still.

Chapter Four

At first, it just a rumbling, punctuated by the occasional shout: the kind of thing that you’re aware of, distantly, and yet can still manage to ignore. Right as my clock flipped over to 8:00, though, the real noise began.

I sat up in bed, startled, as the room suddenly filled with the clanking of metal hitting rock. It wasn’t until I got up and went out on my balcony and saw the backhoe that it all started to make sense.

“Jamie!”

I glanced to my right, where I could see my sister, in her pajamas, standing on her own balcony. She was clutching the railing, looking down at her husband, who was on the back lawn looking entirely too awake, a mug of coffee in his hands and Roscoe at his feet. When he looked up and saw her, he grinned. “Great, right? ” he said. “You can really visualize it now!”

Most of Cora’s response to this was lost in the ensuing din as the backhoe dug once more into the lawn, scooping up more earth from within Jamie’s circle of rocks and swinging to the side to dump it on the already sizable pile there. As it moved back, gears grinding, to go in again, I just caught the end, when she was saying, “. . . Saturday morning, when some people might want to sleep.”