39

“Mom!” There was silence. Then: “Mom!”

Dr. Emily Coleman closed her eyes. It had been a long day and she was at the kitchen island cutting up vegetables that she knew the boys would only pick at and pretend to eat.

“There’s a car in the driveway.”

“Who is it?” she called back.

“I can’t tell. It’s a big black car with weird plates.”

“What do you mean, weird?”

“White.”

She stopped moving and listened, begging God or the universe that he wouldn’t say “US government.”

“White with a big mountain on it,” he said. “Washington.”

She set down the knife, wiped her hands on a dish towel, and went into the living room. It occurred to her that Carol and Dave weren’t barking, but she didn’t dare draw the obvious conclusion from that. She could barely breathe.

She stepped to the door and opened it. There he was. He looked fine—tanned and in shape.

“Hi, Doc,” he said. “I thought I’d come by and pick up my dogs.”

He got the word “dogs” out, but barely, before the two black beasts shot through the doorway, whirled, and leapt around him like dancers, and then the two grandsons arrived and hugged him at about belt height, making it difficult for him to take a step inside and hug his daughter.