Rain is a better lullaby than mother's songs or strong whiskey.

The sound means put your tools away and get inside, tapping into some withered and dusty shred of instinct inside us that seeks warmth and shelter.

Lily prances with her stick, leash dragging on the ground behind her like a balloon string.

I want to drive over there and punch that doctor, Jerry says. Weeks ago we had thought she might have a pancreas problem, but after a blood test the vet had said it's not her pancreas. We were left to grapple with a huge question mark, but we have no room to put this cumbersome thing.

She has a puppy's energy as her flesh and sinew and muscle and substance reconstitutes. Behind me stretched on the cool basement tiles I hear her sigh. With a glance over my shoulder I find Lily curved like a comma, her front paws crossed and her head on top like a paperweight.