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cancer.”
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    Cary Grant was beginning to adjust to her new relationship with Theo. On the second day, she finally clicked over to the water dish and took a few timid sips. She still slept most of the day, but she also began to sit up and look out the window when the truck changed speed on the interstate. She hadn’t eaten any of the kibble, so Theo bought a package of hot dogs from a truck stop and broke one into a few pieces. She held one in the palm of her hand, flush with the seat and a few inches from Cary Grant. The dog sniffed but didn’t take it.
    â€œIt’s okay,” Theo said.
    She could see the dog extend her neck forward as if she was going to take the hot dog but then retreat, and it killed Theo to see her so afraid. She tossed the piece of hot dog onto the seat near Cary Grant’s paws. The dog sniffed, then swallowed it without chewing. She threw another piece, and Cary Grant gobbled that one, too. Theo felt like she might cry from joy. Cary Grant glanced at her shyly, waiting for her to throw another piece.
    â€œHere you go,” Theo said, this time trying to get the dog to take the food directly. She held the hot dog under the dog’s nose and watched the very tip of Cary Grant’s tail wag nervously.
    â€œIt’s all for you,” she said, and the dog reached forward and seized the hot dog from her hand.
    â€œWhat a good girl,” Theo cooed, taking in the giant scar on Cary Grant’s head and all the other scars that crisscrossed her body.
    The first two nights, they slept in Motel 6 parking lots trying to save money. Theo reclined her seat and Cary Grant remained shotgun, snoring lightly with her hot pink cast straight out in front of her. On the third night Theo purchased a cheap room in a small casino and dog track outside of St. Louis. She desperately needed a shower and a good night’s sleep for her sore back.
    She led the dog into the motel room and dumped her belongings on the bed. Then she shoved one of the dog’s painkillers into a piece of hot dog and dropped it in the bowl with some kibble next to the nightstand. She flipped on the TV so the dog would have some background noise and got into the shower. The hot water felt good on her filthy body and she stayed in there long enough to feel guilty for wasting water. When she opened the bathroom door she found the dog waiting for her shyly.
    â€œCary Grant!” she said happily, and the dog wagged once nervously then disappeared around the corner.
    Her bowl was empty; she’d finally eaten. Theo put on her pajamas and crawled under the sheets.
    â€œCome here,” she said, patting the mattress a few times, but the dog’s ears went back when she did that.
    â€œCary Grant,” Theo said quietly.
    She said it a few times until she could feel some meaning behind it. The next time she patted the mattress, she did it lightly, and the dog jumped up, curling into a circle at the foot of the bed.
    Theo flipped through the channels until she landed on an episode of Hooked . She’d seen this one before, about a woman who smoked twenty-five PCP cigarettes a day. How was there enough time in the day to smoke twenty-five PCP cigarettes? And despite smoking twenty-five PCP cigarettes a day, the woman still held down two jobs: one as a prostitute and the other as an ordained minister who married people, drive-thru-chapel style.
    â€œI didn’t like the taste of alcohol at first,” the woman said, recounting how her addiction had begun with just a few beers and then escalated to twenty-five PCP cigarettes a day. “I had to force myself to like it.”
    A camera panned to a middle-aged white man with a moustache. The banner underneath him said, “Addiction Specialist.”
    â€œShe needs help,” the addiction specialist told the woman’s mother.
    â€œWell, that’s a no-brainer! Right, Cary Grant?”
    But the dog had fallen asleep. When I get to New