The dog was sitting in her father's chair.
Rae stopped with her suitcase against her knee. Her mother made a little apologetic noise, the one she used when someone arrived before she'd finished vacuuming.
"Down, sweetheart."
The greyhound climbed out awkwardly. It had a narrow face and cloudy brown eyes. One foreleg bent too far before it steadied.
"You got a dog."
"I did tell you."
Her mother had said company. She had said the house was easier now. On the last call, when Rae asked about visiting her father, she'd said they were working toward reunification.
"When can we see Dad?"
"Have something to eat first."
The chair had a knitted throw tucked over the seat. His reading lamp was gone. So were the stacks of magazines he never finished. In the kitchen, two bowls occupied the space where his walking frame used to stand.
Her mother took a casserole from the oven with bare fingertips and dropped it onto a mat.
"They're coming at six. The adoption people. Routine home check."
Rae glanced at the clock. Twenty minutes.
"I thought we could go to the facility tonight."
Her mother opened a drawer, closed it, then found the serving spoon already beside the plates.
The journey had started a migraine behind Rae's left eye. She pressed her wrist to her forehead. The dog came forward and pushed its wet nose against the underside of her other wrist.
Her father used to do that with two fingers. A lifetime repairing hospital equipment had left him confident about things he wasn't qualified to diagnose.
"Still running," he'd say.
Rae drew her hand away. The dog stayed beside her knee.
"What's his name?"
Her mother busied herself with the casserole.
"He answers to anything, really."
As a child Rae had watched a kettle tip over her father's hand. The scar crossed his knuckles in a pale hook. She saw it now beneath sparse fur on the dog's foreleg, stretched along bones too long for the shape it remembered.
She knelt.
The dog brought its paw up slowly, as if offering something fragile.
"Where is he?"
"Rae."
"Which facility?"
Her mother turned off the oven, although it was already off.
Rae touched the scar. The paw trembled hard enough to rattle a claw against the kitchen tile.
On the counter stood a folded leaflet. She had passed its larger version at the bus station: a woman knitting, a dog by the fire, COME HOME TO EACH OTHER.
Inside, the woman was still knitting. There were feeding quantities and a schedule of compulsory visits. A line beneath the collar illustration read: Removal interrupts placement stability.
"He hated it there," her mother said.
"Did he choose this?"
"He wanted to come home."
"That isn't what I asked."
The collar was soft and blue, almost pretty. When Rae slid a finger underneath, something tightened around her finger. Threads disappeared into the skin. The dog closed its eyes.
Her mother caught her wrist.
"You can't just take it off."
Rae shook her loose and reached for the kitchen scissors.
The first cut made the dog jerk. Rae almost stopped. Then it pushed its head against her chest and held there while she cut the remaining threads, each one pulling wetly from the flesh.
The foreleg opened across her thigh.
Claws shortened. The paw spread around them, webbing drawing back between fingers. She felt fingernails catch in her jeans. A thumb pressed the old burn scar flat.
The dog's jaw worked sideways, searching for a smaller hinge. Teeth knocked together inside the shortening mouth.
"Pea."
Rae hadn't heard that name since he went away.
"Dad."
His breath smelled of meat from a tin. A strip of gray fur still ran up the back of his hand.
"Don't," he said. He swallowed, tried again. "Don't put it back."
She wrapped both arms around him. His ribs moved beneath her hands, trying to make room.
"We're leaving."
"Where?" her mother asked.
Rae stood, lifting him as she had once lifted a sick child. He was heavier than he'd looked. His half-made hand gripped her shoulder, and she got as far as the hall before the doorbell rang.
Her mother opened the door.
"Help me," Rae said.
Her mother stepped aside for the two visitors.
One carried a canvas bag. The other caught Rae's elbows from behind. She kicked the umbrella stand over. Her father slipped, and the woman with the bag knelt to support his head.
"He's speaking," Rae said. "Listen to him."
The woman unfolded a fresh blue collar.
Her father turned his face into Rae's coat.
"Please."
Her mother held his new hand.
"You know what they charge," she said to Rae. "You know what we've got left."
"I'll pay."
"You said that about Tuesdays."
Rae had paid for Tuesdays. Three hours of help, until her hours at work were cut. She'd promised to sort something out. Her mother had stopped mentioning it.
"Then I'll take him."
The woman needed both hands to fasten the collar. Rae's mother guided his chin up.
"I can feed you here," she whispered to him.
His fingers folded under his chest. The thumb went last, pulling the scar after it. He tried to say Rae's name, but the lengthening jaw took the vowel apart.
When the visitors left, Rae was sitting among the fallen umbrellas. Her father stood nearby. A small tremor passed through his legs whenever she moved.
Her mother returned from the kitchen with the biscuit tin.
"Bed," she said, pointing at the hearth.
His body crossed the room. He turned once on the mat and sat. His eyes stayed on Rae.
Her mother offered half a biscuit between finger and thumb. The plain ones he'd always dunked in tea.
He kept his mouth shut.
"Come on, love."
She touched the collar. His mouth opened, and she put the biscuit on his tongue.
