At breakfast, I listen, I nod, I murmur “mhm.” I don’t have anything to say. I usually don’t. Ray tells of a vision quest, of wise talking animals, how flaming stars vanished in a sky of India Ink. Time to go. I become a child in the few seconds it takes me to clamber into the backseat of Mom and Dad’s car with the old panting dog. Her body is warm between my legs. Her eyes are dying stars in a dark grey sky.