“Sounds good,” I said, and stepped into the kitchen to boil some water.
* * *
—
My living room was filled with the pop culture anchors of my life—thousands of books that looked like they’d been shelved by blindfolded maniacs, vintage videogame consoles precariously piled beneath the television on a fading Ikea stand that had some funny name I can’t remember, and countless shelves filled with a variety of toys, candles, board games, records, and antique nautical navigation equipment.
It was an eclectic collection of slightly useful but mostly ornamental detritus.
I handed Chloe a mug of decaffeinated Earl Grey tea, and the two of us sat on my worn-out couch with its red wine stain shaped exactly like Japan and took yet another look at Alan Scarpio’s phone.
We looked into the picture of the dog—the breed （a Cavalier King Charles spaniel cross of some kind）， the background of the photograph （the dog was sitting on grass in front of what appeared to be rhododendrons）， and the dog’s bandana （a shade of blue called cerulean）。 What did any of it mean? Did it have to mean anything?
We went through another pot of tea and our conversation eventually veered away from the game to other topics—like love （Chloe had just broken up with her boyfriend, a drummer named Griff whom she and I always referred to as the Muppet）， life （my hardwood floors had water stains and needed to be repaired or replaced）， and family （I didn’t have any left; Chloe still had all of hers, but mostly wished she didn’t）。
Chloe’s mother had recently been incarcerated for assaulting a convenience store clerk somewhere in Florida. Even though Chloe’s family situation was a consistently fucked-up shit-tower of sadness and neglect, and she still got stressed out about her mom—a lot—Chloe was remarkably cool and well-adjusted. Or maybe she’d become so adept at playing cool and well-adjusted that it was impossible to tell the difference anymore. Either way, it was impressive.
I took a look at the clock. It was just after three in the morning.
“It’s probably time for bed?”
Chloe yawned and nodded.
“You can crash here,” I said. “The guest bedroom is all yours.”
“You sure?”
“Of course, yeah. You know where the towels and everything are.”
“Sure do,” she said.
“Great.”
I handed Chloe a pair of thin blue sweatpants and a Tanis podcast T-shirt, in case she wanted something clean to sleep in.
After she thanked me for the shirt, the two of us stood there in the hallway for a moment. Chloe toyed with the string of her tea bag, which I’d wrapped around the handle of her mug. An unreadable smirk crossed her face as she shifted her weight to her back foot.
I muttered a hasty good night, slipped into my bedroom, and shut the door.
* * *
—
When I got into bed, I pulled out my phone and took another look at the screen capture I’d taken of Scarpio’s home screen.
I mindlessly zoomed in and out on the image as I thought about Chloe across the hall in the guest bedroom.
Was she thinking about me? And if so, what was she thinking? No way she was thinking about me. There were a million things she could be thinking about.
But what about that smirk? Was that some kind of challenge? Did it mean I should have kissed her? No. That would just complicate things, wouldn’t it?
Totally.
So? What the hell is wrong with a little complication?
I zoomed in on the dog’s face. And why wouldn’t Chloe be thinking about me? I moved over to examine the details of the building in the deep background. We’re both single now, right? I turned my attention back to the dog. There is absolutely no reason to feel weird about being attracted to a smart and beautiful woman. I zoomed in on the grass. Okay, settle down. No point in obsessing like this. The dog’s bandana. But Chloe is perfect. Okay, now you just sound sad.
As I continued to zoom around the photograph, obsessing about what Chloe might be thinking, I eventually noticed something.
A glimmer, just beneath the bandana.
There was a bit of metal on the collar. A tag, maybe.
I zoomed in further.
At this extremely low resolution, the words on the collar were far too small to read except for one: the dog’s name. Rabarber.
I jumped out of bed and threw on some pants.
* * *
—
“What the fuck is Rabarber?” Chloe asked, rubbing her eyes as she sat up in my spare bed. She’d already fallen asleep.
“Rhubarb,” I said. “In Danish.”