He placed a weak paw on it.
Then he pushed,s, it toward me with his nose.
Inside, there was an Indiana driver’s license in the name Walter Grayson.
An oncology appointment card.
A motel receipt from the previous night.
And a small photo, so crumpled it was nearly torn in half. In the picture, an elderly man with an oxygen tube in his nose was smiling from a hospital bed, while that same dog pressed against him as if he belonged there more than the machines did.
My stomach tightened.
In the side pocket of the wallet, I found a number written by hand under these words:
“If anything happens, call Janine.”
So I called.
The woman who answered sounded like she had been crying all morning.
When I told her I had Walter’s wallet, she fell completely silent.
Then she asked only one question.
“Where is Bo?”
