Not one hour after her yellow Labrador Wynette had passed away, Gretchen Healy heard a knock on her door. It was soft and hollow, as if the knuckles themselves were made of wood. Go away, she thought. Her heart felt thick and heavy, as if someone had filled its chambers with lead. The last thing she wanted was to talk to anyone.

The knock came again.

She let out a long sigh from the pit of her stomach. Wynette had been her best friend. She had not judged, she had not been needy, ...