“This is the first time. Leah got guilted into it by a very specific combination of the renovation and the double shift and also Biscuit's face.” He glanced sideways at me. “You've seen the face.”
“The face is effective,” I admitted.
“It's weaponized. Leah's been training her to make it on purpose. I'm convinced of it.” He reached down and unclipped the leash when we cleared the gate into the park, and Biscuit immediately shot forward ten feet and then stopped, apparently satisfied by the principle of it. “She does dog agility on Sundays. Biscuit, not Leah. Although Leah's competitive enough that I wouldn't rule it out.”
“Agility,” I said.
“Competitive dog obstacle course racing. It's a whole thing. Leah sends me videos.”
“And?”
He paused. “Biscuit is extremely fast and has no respect for the concept of the designated route, which I'm told is a problem.”
I watched Biscuit veer off the path to investigate a tree, circle it three times, and then veer back without explanation. “I can see that.”
“Coach.” Hartley said it with the flat delivery of someone delivering an important truth. “She knocked over four cones in a row last week. On purpose. The trainer thinks she's doing it deliberately.”
“Is she?”
He looked at the dog. The dog looked at him. Something passed between them that suggested this was an ongoing negotiation. “Almost definitely.”
I started running again, easy pace, and Hartley fell in beside me naturally, Biscuit ranging ahead on the path with theenthusiastic lack of direction of an athlete who'd been told to just go out and play. The park was quiet at this hour, a few other runners, a man reading on a bench with his collar up against the cold.
We ran for a bit without talking, which should've been awkward and wasn't, which was its own problem. Hartley ran the way he skated—smooth, economical, like his body had worked out the most efficient version of every motion and defaulted to it automatically. I was aware of this in the way I was aware of most things that were useful to not be aware of.
“You run every morning?” he asked.
“When I can. It clears the head.”
“Before or after the film review?”
“Before. The film review clears a different part of the head.”
He was quiet for a moment, the path curving around the far side of the pond. “What do you do if neither one works?”
I looked at him sideways. The question was casual but it wasn't. He was watching the path ahead, expression even, and I'd learned enough about how he deflected to recognize when a real question was wearing a casual one as a disguise.
“I work until it stops mattering,” I said, because that was the honest answer even if it wasn't a good one.
“Does that work?”
“Not really. But it's productive.”
He made a small sound that was almost a laugh. “My therapist would have thoughts about that.”
“Probably.”
“She has thoughts about most things I do.” He glanced at me. “Do you have one? A therapist?”
“I had one. A few years ago.” I kept my eyes on the path. “It was useful.”
“But you stopped.”
“It was a particular situation. The situation resolved.”
He didn't push, which I appreciated. Biscuit doubled back to check on us, circled my feet twice, and then took off again in what I was beginning to understand was her signature move—the inspection followed by the departure, like she was confirming we were still there before deciding she didn't need us after all.
“She likes you,” Hartley said.
