Twenty minutes later I sat in my car, across the street from the house of Dr. Daniel Rizzoli. He lived on Sound Beach, over by the water. The closer you got to the water, the nicer the houses got—gorgeous and huge and intimidatingly fancy, and Dr. Rizzoli’s was no exception. The last time I’d been there, it had been for a fund-raiser for my dad. The house’s gates had been flung wide, there had been candles in lanterns lining the driveway, and valets in white coats running around parking cars.
My phone buzzed in the cupholder, and I looked down at it—it was a text from Palmer. She and Tom were going for breakfast at the diner in case anyone wanted to join them. I didn’t know why they were up this early, but I also didn’t want to get distracted by a text exchange. I had to focus. I put my phone facedown on the passenger seat, then flipped open the visor mirror of my car and gave myself a last look. I’d wanted to look like I was competent and deserving of a recommendation, but not too dressed up, considering it wasn’t even eight yet. I’d gone with dark jeans and a button-down, and since I didn’t want to waste time doing something with my hair, I’d pulled it into a knot on top of my head. I slicked on a tiny bit more lip gloss, then dropped it in my bag and flipped the visor up.
“Okay,” I said, taking in a breath, holding it for seven seconds, then letting it out for ten. It was actually the only thing I’d taken away from Camp Stepping Stone—a way of making your heart rate slow and calming yourself down. I used it whenever I was preparing to do something stressful. But while this was not the most pleasant thing I could imagine doing today, at least I was prepared. I’d turned the radio off and practiced my speech the whole way over. I had answers lined up for all the arguments I could imagine Dr. Rizzoli making. I could do this. I took a breath, opened the door, and stepped out into the sunshine. “Hello, Dr. Rizzoli,” I murmured under my breath, practicing. “Good morning, Dr. Rizzoli. Sorry to bother you . . .” I nodded. That was the one. I straightened my shoulders and headed for the house.
I was halfway across the street when I heard the dog.
There was the sound of loud, joyful barking, and I turned around and felt my eyes widen. A large white fluffy dog was galloping down the road, tongue flying sideways out of its mouth, limbs landing in a haphazard pattern that seemed to send it listing to the side and then scrambling for balance every few steps. There was a leash dragging on the ground behind it, the plastic handle scraping along the asphalt with a dull hiss, occasionally bumping over rocks, but the dog was alone—there was no indication that there had been a human on the other end at some point. I looked around, starting to get concerned as the dog zigzagged back and forth across the road. This wasn’t a busy street, but I still didn’t think it was a good idea for this dog to be running loose.
“Here, um, you,” I called, gesturing toward myself and feeling incredibly self-conscious about it. “Come here.” The dog stopped and looked at me, then sat down right in the middle of the street, which I didn’t think was an improvement. “Come on,” I said again, gesturing to myself again as I took a small step closer to it. The dog leaped up and ran a few steps away, then sat down again, and I could see his long tail thumping on the ground. Clearly, he thought we were playing a game, and he seemed thrilled about it. “Okay, just stay,” I said as I started to move toward him slowly. I was only a few feet away from the leash that was lying on the ground. If I could get ahold of it, I could at least try to figure out what should happen next.
I had very little experience with dogs. We’d never had one when I was growing up, and none of my friends had dogs either. Palmer’s family had cats that were semi-feral and came and went as they pleased, and Bri had Miss Cupcakes, evil feline. Nathan Trenton, who I’d dated sophomore year, had a really awesome mutt that I’d loved. Nathan used to complain that I was more excited to see his dog than to see him, and when I’d realized that was true, I’d broken up with him.
I moved carefully toward the dog, whose tail was still thumping on the ground. It was looking right at me, mouth open and tongue hanging out, and I could have sworn that it was smiling at me. I reached out slowly, keeping eye contact as I inched my way closer.
“Birdie!” This was yelled out in a loud, panicky voice, and I turned around to see a guy running up the street, looking around frantically. When he saw the dog, I could see his shoulders slump with relief, even from a distance. He started running faster, and I turned back to the dog, which was when I noticed two things at almost exactly the same time.
One, the dog was getting ready to run again, apparently convinced that his favorite game had taken on a new and exciting layer. And two, there was a car heading down the street toward us, going much faster than it should have been.