Page 13

Before I can respond, another woman comes in, asking what’s going on, and Stella introduces us to her roommate, Marissa, and explains that Goldfish isn’t feeling well.

“It’s our fault,” I say. “We carelessly let a lot of marshmallows fly into your yard earlier today, and unfortunately, Goldfish ate some. Maybe too many.”

“We’d like to take him to the vet to make sure he’s okay,” Wyatt says as Marissa frowns.

The roommate looks between us and Stella, and then at Jessie, who appears to be on the verge of tears. In the back of my mind, I’m trying to figure out how to build a time travel machine, so I can go back in time and prevent this whole horrible situation.

“We’d need an appointment for the vet,” Marissa says, “and it’s after hours now.”

“There must be some kind of vet around that’s open in the evening,” Wyatt says, pulling his phone from his back pocket. He taps and scrolls for just a moment before telling us there’s an emergency vet just ten miles away.

“I’ll go,” Stella says, turning to her roommate. “Is it okay if Jessie stays here with you?”

“Of course.”

Stella retrieves her purse from where it was hanging on a chair at the dining table, then kneels in front of her daughter, telling her to be good, and that she’ll be home as soon as they get Goldfish checked by the doctor.

“Will he be okay, Mommy?” the girl asks, and my god, the dog had better be okay, or I don’t know what I’m going to do.

Goldfish, for his part, is lying on the tile floor, flat on his belly, legs splayed out behind him. As soon as Stella grabs his leash, his tail starts to wag. Poor guy probably thinks he’s going for a walk.

“We’ll run home and get our car. And we’ll check the package labels. We still have them in the trash,” I tell Stella, who nods. “We’ll be back in a minute.”

Wyatt and I are both quiet as we jog back around the corner to our house. I know he’s feeling as sick about this as I am. How could something as innocent and basic as marshmallows cause a problem like this? We should’ve been more careful.

“I’ll get the marshmallow bags while you get the car,” Wyatt says when we’re at the door.

“This had better turn out okay,” I tell him.

A minute after I back out into the driveway, Wyatt appears with a fistful of empty plastic bags and several beach towels tucked under his arm.

“I don’t see xylitol listed on any of these,” he says. “None are sugar free.”

“That’s a relief. I hope that means it’s just a simple upset stomach for the poor pooch.”

“Let’s hope.”

Around the corner, Stella is waiting at the end of her driveway with Goldfish on his leash and a pile of her own towels in her arms.

“We brought towels, too,” Wyatt tells her when he hops out. “Want to sit up front?”

“I’ll sit in the back with Goldfish,” she says.

He opens the back door and spreads our towels on the seat and floor, but Stella hangs back when he’s done.

“We should really take my car. Yours is too nice.”

I wave her in. “It can be cleaned. No worries.”

As soon as we’re on our way, Wyatt tells her that there was no xylitol listed on any of the packages. “These are all the brands we got,” he says, handing her the empty bags.

“Okay, good. Maybe we should take these in and show the vet, just in case.”

“Sure thing.”

I drive fast, but not so fast that I might make Stella feel unsafe. This would be a perfect opportunity to get to know her better, but it would be insensitive to talk about anything else right now when she’s worried about her dog.

When I’m stopped at a light, I catch her eye in the rearview mirror. “I can’t say enough how sorry we are about this.”