On Tuesday, Quinn picked her.
She was the smallest one in the picture. Brown ears, white paws, a belly round as a peach. Quinn pointed at the screen and said, "That one."
Mom said, "She comes Saturday."
Saturday was four whole sleeps away.
Quinn got ready. She set out a water bowl by the kitchen door. She made a bed from an old blanket, folded it three times, patted it flat. She drew a sign that said WELCOME HOME in big red letters — well, the W was backwards, but it still counted.
"We're ready," Quinn said.
They were not ready.
Saturday came. The car pulled up. Dad carried in a crate with a little door on the front. Quinn lay flat on her belly to peek inside.
Two brown eyes looked back.
"Hi," Quinn whispered.
Dad opened the little door.
Nothing happened.
Then — a nose. Then two paws. Then the whole dog came tumbling out like a potato rolling off a table.
She was smaller than the picture. She was shaking. Her tail was tucked so far under her belly it disappeared.
Quinn reached out her hand.
The dog sniffed it once, twice, three times — and then peed on the kitchen floor.
"Oh!" said Mom.
"Oh no!" said Dad.
Quinn laughed so hard she fell sideways.
The dog did not sleep in the nice blanket bed. She slept under the couch. All the way under, where the dust lived.
She did not drink from the water bowl. She knocked it over with her nose, and the water spread across the tiles in a great big puddle.
She did not look at the welcome sign. She chewed the corner off.
The sign said WELCO HO now.
"I don't think she likes it here," Quinn said quietly at dinner.
Mom squeezed her shoulder. "She doesn't know here yet."
That night, Quinn heard a sound. A small, sad sound — like a little motor that kept stopping and starting.
She crept downstairs in her socks.
The dog was under the couch, whimpering. Her brown eyes caught the moonlight from the window.
Quinn didn't reach in. She didn't pull her out. She just lay down on the floor, right there beside the couch, and put her cheek against the rug.
"I know," Quinn said. "Everything is new and weird."
The whimpering slowed down.
"The house smells funny and the floor is slippery and you don't know where anything is."
Quinn yawned.
"But I'm right here."
She closed her eyes. Just for a second.
Mom found them in the morning.
Quinn was curled up on the rug, still in her socks. And the dog — the dog was not under the couch anymore.
She was pressed against Quinn's chest, nose tucked under Quinn's chin, her round peach belly rising and falling, rising and falling.
The blanket bed was still empty. The water bowl was still tipped over. The chewed-up sign still said WELCO HO.
But the little door on the crate was wide open, and the dog was breathing slow and warm against a girl who had stayed.
Dad started the coffee. Mom got a new water bowl.
Quinn opened one eye, felt the warm weight against her chest, and smiled so big her nose crinkled.
She didn't move. Not one inch.
