Page 176 of Josephine and Clay

I pass Dallas’s office corner, where a stack of folders sits under a paperweight shaped as a horse Lila made in school.

I pause there.

Stupid little clay horse. One leg shorter than the others. Painted purple and blue with a crooked black mane. Dallas keeps it as if it’s gold.

Because to him, it probably is.

I move on.

Downstairs is harder.

Every step sends fire through my leg. I grip the railing, jaw locked, moving one stair at a time. Basically an old man with too much pride and not enough sense.

Halfway down, I nearly slip.

The duffel knocks against the wall.

I freeze.

The sound seems huge.

I wait for lights. For Mom’s voice. For Dallas coming out with that look. For someone to catch me before I can make it clean.

Nothing.

The house stays asleep.

I keep going.

At the bottom, Rusty is waiting. He lies in the hallway near the kitchen, head on his paws, one ear up. His cloudy eyes track me because he’s been expecting this.

“Don’t,” I whisper.

Rusty’s tail thumps once against the floorboards, loud enough to make me wince.

The damn dog always knows when something’s wrong.

“Rusty,” I warn quietly.

He huffs.

I swear under my breath, then limp toward the kitchen. Every part of me aches now, sweat cold on my back. I set the envelope on the table, right where Mom will see it in the morning beside her coffee mug.

The sight of it there makes the whole thing feel final.

Good.

Final is what I need.

Rusty gets up, joints creaking, and follows me to the back door.

“No,” I tell him softly. “You’re staying.”

He looks offended.

“You hate trucks.” He thumps his tail again.

I crouch as much as my leg allows, which isn’t much, and scratch behind his ear. His fur is rough under my fingers.