The kitchen floor felt colder than usual under my slippers when I reached for the ceramic dog-bone jar. Mabel was standing by the back door, her tail moving in a slow, uncertain rhythm that did not match her usual morning greeting.
I stood by the kitchen counter, hand hovering over the ceramic dog-bone jar by the coffee maker, waiting for the familiar rhythm of the afternoon. Outside, the sun was hitting the porch, but inside, the air felt thick and still.
