The ghost of the r****t's smell was relentless. It didn't matter how much I showered; I couldn't wash it away. Don burst in the door sweating and tired from jogging and it was all I could do to keep from crying out.
Between showers, I drank a lot and watched Emmett, who spent his time wrestling with Zip and doing what seemed like normal dog things. He slept with me at night, brought me toys, and licked my face when he caught me crying, but he didn't say anything else.
I didn't want any drama, so I didn't contact my parents. It would upset my mother, and my father would blame me. I don't need his help. I've already done a fine job of blaming myself.
I told Glenn Forsyth, the editor of the paper, that I was ill and wouldn't be in for a few days. He was politely sympathetic and told me to
