He brought Free on a Saturday.
No warning, no preamble—she opened the door to go downstairs and Lorenzo was already there on the stoop, and at his feet, at the end of a leash, was a golden retriever the size of a small horse.
Not a small horse. Free. Just Free, eight months older, his puppy roundness resolved into actual dog, his paws enormous and his ears finally settled, his whole back end in full rotation at the sight of her.
He went for her before Lorenzo could react.
The leash snapped taut and then she was on one knee on the sidewalk and he was on top of her—all forty-odd pounds of him, paws on her shoulders, tongue across her face, whimpering in that specific breathless register that meant where did you go where did you go where did you go—
"Hey." Her voice came out wrecked. She
