Free Why They Run the Way They Do by Susan Perabo

was twenty-one, that her and I and the men we were fixing to marry would take vacations together, play shuffleboard on the deck of a cruise ship, ride donkeys down the Grand Canyon.
    â€œI miss you,” she said. “You might as well be a million miles away.”
    â€œI’ll see you soon,” I said. “Not now, but soon.”

    It was the next Friday, around lunchtime, when Jerry came out to my place. He drove a big pickup truck, shiny black and no more than a couple years old. He pulled past the dirt drive and onto the grass and on up to the kennel, which most people have the common courtesy not to do. He was already out of the truck and looking at the dogs by the time I’d gotten on my coat and gloves and made my way up there. He wasn’t dressed for the weather—it was twentysomething degrees, I bet—and he had his hands tucked into the pits of his flannel shirt.
    â€œTalked her into it, did ya?” I asked him.
    He didn’t look at me, just kept checking out the dogs. “Talked who into what?”
    â€œThe one who didn’t want a dog. Promised her you’d take good care of it?”
    He rubbed his hands together and then blew into them. “Are there any fatter ones?”
    True, most of the outright strays were skin and bones. But there were at least three overweight dogs—orphaned by divorce or allergy most likely—standing not ten feet from him when he said this.
    â€œLook at that black one,” I said. A bit of dizziness blew through my head and I took hold of the fence pole to steady myself. “You want fatter than that?”
    â€œHe a barker?”
    â€œThey’re dogs,” I said. “They bark. But no, he’s not one that keeps you up nights. That one in the corner—he’s a fatty, too, and quiet. The two get on well. You want ’em both, I’ll charge you just for the one.”
    He shook his head. “I don’t want two dogs,” he said. He still hadn’t looked at me.
    â€œYou got a big yard, all fenced up. Shame to let it go to waste.”
    Now he finally turned. In the cold his face was a little gray, his eyes watery. “It’s not going to waste,” he said.
    â€œWell,” I said. “Come on down to the house and we’ll write it up.”
    I was stalling, really. The sky promised snow and probably no one else would come by today, and though being alone wasn’t something that’d bothered me for the last forty or so years, the truth was in the early afternoons it was starting to get to me just a little bit now. Plus maybe I could convince him if I gave him a cup of coffee. We walked down to the house. I hadn’t been much for picking up in the last couple months, and there was a lot of mess around the living room, including a couple empty boxes that the bulk Milk-Bones had come in that I’d just left lying near the front door.
    â€œYou want a coffee?” I asked him, a little embarrassed by the state of things.
    â€œYou’re moving,” he said, looking around the room.
    â€œNo,” I said. “I just—”
    â€œYou are. You’re moving. I saw the sign on the gate.” He pointed a bony finger at me. “You don’t want any more dogs because you’re moving down to Florida to live in a condominium. You’re going to get skinny and leathery and wear shorts with flowers on them.”
    I laughed a little. “All right,” I said. “Have it your way. Do you want a coffee or not?”
    â€œYou’re not going to like it down there,” he said. He sat down at my kitchen table, which was covered in junk mail and paper napkins.
    â€œNow how could you know that? You don’t even know my name.”
    â€œYou’re not going to like it,” he said. “This is your home. Look at this place. Nobody in Florida lives like this.”
    â€œWhere’s your paperwork?” I asked. “In the