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she wasn’t perfect enough for the dog shows. Her ears were too floppy, and she was one pound heavier than she was allowed to be. Sometimes I wonder if the whole world is just some supersized version of Hubert C. Frost Middle School.
    Queso hears her name and runs back onto the porch toward Corny, who scoops her up and tells me she has a T-R-E-A-T for me inside. She has to spell it out or the dogs will start spazzing, bowing and panting, practically doing pirouettes just to get a biscuit. But I follow her inside, stepping over Bella, our laziest dog—a hound mix who has the round shape and gray-brown coat of an Arctic seal—and find that Corny’s actually baked me a cake.
    â€œIt’s all for you. No bonemeal. No yeast,” she says, over her shoulder. When Corny cooks, she likes to do it efficiently. In this house, that means using stuff that can be eaten by both species—canine and human. “Not even a drop of beef broth,” she adds.
    She turns around to hand me a knife. Then she almost drops it, finally seeing me at full-length. “Good God, Olivia. What are you wearing?”
    I try not to break into tears as I explain what happened. And somehow I manage not to. Her wrinkled face gets even more wrinkled as I talk.
    â€œI’m so sorry, Liv. I can’t believe they put you through this. If only I had known—”
    â€œIt’s okay,” I say. Which it isn’t, but still, it’s not like it’s her fault.
    â€œI’m going to call that nurse lady and tell her, if anything like that ever happens again—”
    â€œIt won’t,” I reassure her. But inside, I’m not so sure.
    â€œI don’t care if they got a zillion sanitary napkins and a pair of gold-sequined pants worn by Elizabeth Taylor—”
    She hugs me. It always surprises me how warm and soft her hugs are since she looks so old and bony.
    The cake has white icing, and she’s made little pink asterisk-looking things across the top with a tube of frosting. “Those are supposed to be flowers,” she says.
    â€œThank you,” I say, and mean it.
    You know how sometimes you can be sad all day and not cry, but then someone does something nice for you, and it should make you really happy, but instead it turns you into a sobbing mess? Well, this is one of those times.

    I call my dad after I eat a piece of the cake, which is surprisingly good, considering Corny’s cooking habits. He asks me about school, which I don’t want to talk about. Then I ask how things are going at work.
    â€œUnfortunately, very well.” He laughs apologetically.
    My dad is supposed to be moving here with me and Corny when things start to slow down with his job. He’s a carpenter, and his boss keeps promising to retire when the work stops coming in so quickly. But I guess everybody and their brother in Valleyhead, where I used to live, is building additions onto their houses, and my dad’s boss keeps giving him more and more money to stick it out.
    â€œWish I had better news,” he says.
    Oomlot settles on the floor next to where I sit, and I reach out and ruffle his chest. Yellow-white fur floats into the air. A few years ago, Corny found Oomlot living behind the Food Lion. She took care of his worms and his fleas and his manners—but his shedding, it’s the one thing she couldn’t fix.
    â€œIt’s okay,” I lie. I don’t bother telling my dad I miss him, because I think he already knows that. Plus I might cry all over again, and crying is one of my least favorite activities.
    He says, “I’m glad you’re okay with this,” and I wonder if I’m becoming a better liar.
    It’s hard missing my dad. Just this past summer, I did have the chance to move back home with him. But I didn’t. I loved my old cat Grey, but I couldn’t see leaving the dogs for her. There’s also another reason, a secret reason, I didn’t