A ghost sits at the kitchen table, buttering toast. He wavers, semi-transparent. Not wanting to spook him further, I leave.
How many ghosts can fit in a house before it becomes a cemetery?
On my way to the dog shelter, I buy a deli sandwich that tastes like sawdust. Every day, I walk a different dog around the block. It gets me out of the house. Gives the ghosts some privacy, too.
“New arrival,” says the shelter lady. “Poor thing. Nobody will ever want her . . . too damaged.”
The dog in question is dark-furred, buster-collared. A bony mixed breed. The adoption fee, less than the price of my sawdust breakfast. So I pay it.
They say depression is a black dog following you around. This dog trembles so much, she can’t walk. I want to make the ones who hurt her pay, but admitting this would mean more therapy sessions. I carry the dog in my arms. The shelter lady offers me a cardboard box, but I have enough of those, unopened back at the house.
“This is your new home,” I say in the entryway.
The dog’s nails click against the floorboards.
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