Page 18 of You'll Love it Here

But then his eyes bulge and he starts making this horriblehurk hurkmotion with his neck like he’s trying to cough something up.

“Holy crap. Holy crap, are you dying, little guy?”

I scoop him up. He’s trembling again, just like he was when the fireman pulled him from under the stairwell. His eyes are glassy now.

Holding him like he’s a live grenade, I race down the stairs two at a time. Is there a version of 911 for animals? Where do people go when dogs are dying? Probably a vet. But where is there a vet? Can I google that while holding this dog with both hands?

I burst out of the building and right away my eyes land on Corner Coffee & Food. Sami. He’d know what to do. I just know it.

A tiny bell dings as I barrel through the diner door, Ernest still cradled in my arms like I’m Kevin Costner inThe Bodyguard. When Sami looks up from behind the counter and locks eyes with me, his face brightens and he stands straighter—then, clocking my expression, the smile drops like a rock.

“What’s wrong?”

“I think he’s choking!” I hold out Ernest toward him. “He chewed up my pillow and I don’t know why and I don’t know what to do.” It all comes out in one breath now. Ernest lets out another terrifyinghurk.

“Okay, okay.” Sami is already moving, coming around the counter like he does this kind of thing every day. His brows narrow on the tiny patient as he makes his way closer. “Here, let’s go outside. Put him down for a sec.”

We burst through the diner door, and I lower Ernest gently to the grey, patchy sidewalk. He trembles again, lets out a deep and dramatic hack, and with it he spits up the tiniest, soggiest tuft of pillow stuffing. I stare from the shiny glob to Ernest. He blinks up at us each like he’s already forgotten how we all got here.

Sami crosses his arms, nods once. “He’s fine.”

“What?” I scoop Ernest back up, comforted by the warmth of his little body. “He almost died choking and he’s just... fine?”

“Yeah, basically.” He nods. “You said he got into one of your pillows? How’d that happen?”

I nod and a new guilt settles in. “Yeah, I left him alone to go visit Irene. I thought he’d be okay.” I sound about as defensive as I feel.

“Of course.” Sami’s face softens. “He was probably nervous. New place. His person’s gone. Chewing is how dogs deal with stress.”

“Oh no.” I bury my face into Ernest’s furry back. “I’m the stress. Irene was so happy I was helping him. What is she going to think when—”

“It’s not your fault,” he says, his voice soft as he reaches to pat Ernest, a motion I find strangely comforting as I hold the guy. “And you can’t exactly stare at him twenty-four seven. Here—when I get off work later, drop him off. We can switch off his care, so you can take a break and run errands or whatever.”

“Seriously?” My voice cracks a little now. “That would be really great.”

“Of course. Like I said, I’m happy to help, plus Ernest can give me the neighborhood tea I missed while working in the diner.”

I chuckle at this and shift Ernest to my other shoulder. I’m glad dogs can’t talk. Ernest has seen too much of how I’ve been living lately.

Sami jerks his head back toward the diner. “Gotta finish up in there, but I’ll see you two later?”

“For sure.” I grin.

I hold Ernest a little tighter as I head home.

Back in my apartment, I gather the pillow innards and stuff them in the trash. I’m about to grab the blanket that I’d folded on the end of my couch for him to lie on, but his little body shape is imprinted on it, so I leave it in case he needs to have a nap here after his walk tomorrow.

My stomach growls, reminding me what a long day it’s been. It’s slim pickings in the fridge, so I settle for two Babybel cheeses. That doesn’t do much to alleviate the hunger, so I scrape a well-frosted bean burrito from the bottom corner of my freezer, pop it in the oven, and scroll around on my phone while I wait for it to cook. First up is a reel of some random toddler doing a sloppy job of feeding some backyard chickens. (The toddler is the child of this girl I met in college during a Bermuda shorts party. We got stoned and decided we were kindred spirits who should start ano-nonsense advice agency. We exchanged IG follows and never spoke again. Now I’m watching this.)

A knock sounds at my door. Ernest, once again, starts losing his entire shit in barks and acrobatics toward the door. A great sign.

I pull the door open and answer. “Hello.”

It’s Lana, holding a giant box in her arms and a chunky ring of keys dangling from her fingers. “Hi, Mona. I wanted to follow up on what we discussed in the hospital, make sure you have everything you need.”

Before I could say anything, she shoves the box into my arms. It thuds against my stomach.

“Sorry—what is this?” I stagger back a step under the weight.