“Hey, boy,” I murmur, ruffling his ears. I reach up to the top shelf for the “special cookies” Mrs. Bellows hides from other humans so that she alone can give them to Edison as a treat.
“One last bribe,” I tell him, slipping it between his teeth. He crunches noisily, tail wagging as if he believes I’ll be here tomorrow.
But when I cross to the door, suitcase dragging behind me, he freezes.
A low whine works its way out of his chest, and then he presses his head against my thigh like he’s trying to anchor me to the floor.
“It’s okay, Edison,” I whisper. My throat feels raw.
“You’ll be fine. Maybe I’ll even see you in Central Park one day.”
The lie tastes bitter, even as he yips hopefully, like he believes it too.
I slip outside before he can follow.
Then I step onto the porch, suitcase thumping behind me, and almost collide with Mrs. Bellows. She’s just come up the drive, her canvas bag slung over one arm.
“Off so early, dear?” she says, eyebrows lifting.
Her voice is gentler than usual, touched with real surprise.
“Yes,” I manage, adjusting my grip on the suitcase handle. “I’m leaving.”
Her eyes search my face. “Leaving? Why now?”
I force a small smile. “It’s just time.”
Mrs. Bellows frowns. From her facial expression, I sense she’s struggling to tell me something.
“You’ve been good with Posey,” she says quietly, almost to herself. “That little one—she’ll miss you.”
The words catch in my throat. “I’ll miss her too.”
Then she meets my eyes and opens her mouth, as if to speak. But her lips close tightly. Like she’s shutting the door on whatever she almost said.
Mrs. Bellows turns toward the house, disappearing inside with the weight of someone carrying secrets.
I force myself keep walking, suitcase rattling over the uneven road. The air smells like salt and fresh bread from the bakery down the block—normal, ordinary things that at this moment feel cruelly out of place.
At the bus stop, I lower myself onto the bench. As I wait, the slats dig into my thighs. I wrap my arms around my middle, as if I can keep myself from unraveling.
Cars crawl past. The same local traffic I’ve watched every morning here, but today it feels staged, like a scene from a movie I’m no longer part of.
Soon the bus will take me to the ferry.
Then New York.
I glance back at road that leads toward the Abernathy house. I can't see it, but I imagine that inside, Posey is still curled up with Mr. Froggy.
Cameron is probably still asleep, guitar resting on his chest.
The only humans on the planet I care for, so close.
And yet so far.
The ache in my chest sharpens until I can barely breathe.
I’m going to miss this place, I think. But no—that isn’t true. I’ll only miss him.
