One night, years later, a woman arrived at Lenora’s door with an envelope and a photograph. The photograph was a small dog, faraway eyes caught in sun; the woman’s hands trembled. “He belongs to my son,” she said. “He died on the mountain, and the boy is broken. I was told you might know how to help.”

: There is no greater feeling than when a timid dog finally "blossoms" and shows their true personality.

Lenora thought of solitude like a well-worn coat—comfortable, necessary—and also like a shell that could be opened to let in air. She rose from her chair and found that the thought of going outside was less a breach than a small expansion. They walked, and Marrow ran in sudden arcs, and Thomas told stupid jokes that made the terrier Bristle snort. The town’s edges softened. People who had once steered clear of Lenora for fear of entanglement began to stop and ask about the dogs, and then, in a slow, honest progression, about her.