Chapter 4: What the Dog Remembered
We drove back to the music store at half past nine.
The street was quieter now, the shops dark, a few people walking dogs under the streetlights.
I had the photo open on my phone, the brightness turned all the way up.
The alcove where the man had been sitting was empty.
Just a flattened piece of cardboard, a paper coffee cup on its side, and a small worn blanket folded against the wall like someone had left it there deliberately, not abandoned it.
Ethan crouched down and touched the edge of the blanket.
"He was here."
"He's gone," my husband said.
"The dog," Ethan said suddenly.
He stood up and looked down the street.
"His dog was brown with a white patch on its ear.
I remember because I asked him its name."
"What did he say?"
"He said her name was Becca." Ethan looked at me.
"I thought that was just a coincidence."
My throat tightened.
Becca.
The name my brother had called me from the time he could talk.
Not Rebecca.
Never Rebecca.
Always Becca.
I walked to the edge of the alcove and looked both directions down the street.
A man was closing up a convenience store two doors down.
I walked toward him.
"Excuse me," I said.
"The man who sits here during the day, with the brown dog — do you know him?
Do you know where he goes at night?"
The store owner looked at me with the careful expression of someone deciding how much to say.
"You family?"
The question hit me somewhere I wasn't prepared for.
"I think I might be."
He studied me for another moment.
Then he said, "There's a shelter on Clement Street.
St.
Augustine's.
He goes there most nights when the weather's bad.
Has been for about two years." He paused.
"Good man.
Quiet.
Never any trouble."
"Thank you," I said.
"Thank you very much."
My husband was already looking up the address.
St.
Augustine's was twelve minutes away.
We drove in silence, Ethan in the back seat holding the gold bar in both hands like he was afraid to set it down.
When we pulled up, the front lights were still on and a volunteer was sweeping the steps.
I went up alone.
"I'm looking for a man who may be staying here," I said.
"He has a brown dog with a white patch on her ear.
Her name is Becca."
The volunteer's expression shifted.
"You're Rebecca," she said.
It wasn't a question.
I went very still.
"How do you know that?"
"He told us someone might come." She set the broom against the railing.
"He said if a woman named Rebecca ever came asking, we should tell her — he's not ready.
Not yet.
But he wanted her to know he's safe."
My eyes filled before I could stop them.
"Can I leave him a message?" I managed.
"He said you'd ask that too." She reached into her jacket pocket and produced a small folded piece of paper.
"He left this for you."
I unfolded it with shaking hands.
My husband had come up behind me.
Ethan stood one step below, watching my face.
The note had four words.
May you like
*Not yet.
But soon.*
