“Just clearing out some junk.” He put a hand up as I came closer. “That old animal was a nuisance, and little Paige was scared to set foot in the living room with it around.”

I looked past him at the box — Max’s blanket, her dishes, her toys, all packed up like garbage. On top lay a carbon-copy slip, and I read it before he could snatch it: a county animal shelter surrender form, dated that afternoon, in Arthur’s handwriting.

“You gave her away.” My voice came out strange and flat. “You took my mother’s guide dog to a shelter and dropped her off.”

“I did this family a favor.” He folded his arms, not a flicker of shame on his face. “Dogs get old, they become a burden, you deal with it. Now go wash your face and get ready for the guests before you upset the child again.”

He’d surrendered a twelve-year-old registered service dog to a shelter — an animal a senior dog’s age is often the first to be put down — and he’d left an eleven-year-old to find the empty room alone.

I slid the surrender slip out from under his hand and into my pocket, and I didn’t say another word to him. I already knew what I was going to do.