Ten months, two weeks, and one day ago, on a clear cold day in late October, I set my plastic cup of cocoa down carefully on the Formica tabletop by the window of the ReddiStop, lowered myself to the bench, pulled off my windbreaker, and stuck my cane under the table where even I couldn’t worry that anyone else would trip on it. Taking three deep calming breaths, I rested my hand on the cross necklace under my blouse and looked outside.

Sadie Krebs picked her way gingerly down the Maple Street sidewalk, towed along by the humongous dog she’d rescued. I told myself not to go apologize again for having possibly re-traumatized the dog by smacking it across the muzzle the day before—I wouldn’t have done that if I’d seen it coming a ways away and had time to think, but I didn’t have time; I was trying to pick up the book I’d dropped, and the first thing I knew its teeth were approaching me at eye level. Sadie knows I’m scared of dogs. After all these years she probably also knows that I’m scared of doing the wrong thing, and the fear sometimes pushes me into doing the wrong thing.