There's a thump against the side of the house, the scrabble of claws on the porch boards, and then a heavy paw and a wet nose start working at the screen of the side door like he lives here.
Mom starts, then laughs. "Lord—whose dog is that?"
"Neighbor's." I cross over and open the screen, and Hoagie comes in like he's been invited, tags jingling, and goes straight for my mother because dogs always know the softest person in the room. "He does this. He's got a hole in the fence and no shame about it."
"Well, aren't you a handsome fella." She's already crouched down, scratching him under the chin, gone to mush. "What's his name?"
"Hoagie."
"Hoagie." She laughs again, delighted, both hands on the dog's big dumb head. "Who names a dog Hoagie?"
"Didn't ask. Wasn't my dog to name."
She looks up at me with the dog's jowls in her hands, and there's a question forming behind her face—I can see it coming, thewhose dog, exactly, and how often does he come over, and what's the neighbor like—and I head it off by taking Hoagie's collar and steering him back toward the door.
"Come on. Your mom's probably looking for you."
I walk him out and point him at the gap in the fence, and he goes, reluctant, looking back at me twice like I've disappointed him.
When I come back in, my mother's watching me with an expression I don't love.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing." She holds my eye a second past being comfortable, then lets it go and brushes dog hair off her knees.
She doesn't say anything else about it. She doesn't have to. I know that look.
I've spent twenty-eight years on the other end of it.
She stays another hour and then she has to get back.
At the door, she takes my face in both hands like she did when I was small, and she looks at me one more time, the full inventory.
"Call me on Sunday," she says. "Not a damn text. I want to hear your voice."
"I will, Mom."
"And eat the cornbread before it goes hard. I didn't drive an hour for you to let it sit."
"I will."
She kisses my cheek and goes down the steps, and at the car, she turns back. "I'm proud of you, Njal. You know that."
And I can't answer her, because pride is heavier than blame ever was, and she knows it.
She gets in the car before I have to try.
I watch her drive out until the dust settles back down on the road.
* * *
I'm on the porch again that evening, and I'm not going to pretend I'm not listening for it.
The light goes down soft and orange through the pines, and I tell myself I'm just out here for the cool of the evening.
The same as any night, and then her fire catches over in her yard, her voice carries low across the still air, talking to that dog, and I stop pretending.
I don't have to wait long.