Wilhelmina T. was Pepper’s first owner. She was eighty-eight when she died, she had eaten lunch in that cafe four days a week for nine years, and she had left the building to her nephew. Desmond had inherited the lease, the chairs, the espresso machine, and the “Dogs Welcome” sign she had hand-painted herself, because Wilhelmina had never once come in without that little blind dog under her arm.

The man in the coat was her attorney. He had been handling her estate for eleven months and had recognized Pepper from across the room before he recognized anything else. He told Desmond, quietly, with no particular pleasure, that his aunt’s will contained a condition regarding the animals policy at that address, and that he would be reviewing it on Monday.

I do not know what happened in that review. I was never told the details and I did not ask. What I know is that Desmond found me at the shelter three weeks later, stood in the parking lot in the rain, and apologized in a way that was clearly costing him something.