Nothing in the cupboards. I’d known that for a long time. It was a long time coming, really. If only little Rachel… Not that it changes anything now.

I sat with her for such a long time. I cried and cried. I cried and was silent, and slept, and laid against her to stay close. I touched her face and her hands. I touched them again and again, until the warmth ran out.

Nothing to eat. Nothing to eat before, but certainly not now.

I cried and waited. No one heard. We’d kept ourselves separate, after all. She had her pride.

It wasn’t Rachel’s fault.

She was so good. I missed her.

Her face and her hands. I kissed them, over and over, tasted the salt of them in my mouth, felt the whisper of thin skin on my tongue.

Later, only Rachel understood.

Her skin was like paper. It peeled and cracked.

I smelled the blood. It confused me at first. She never smelled like blood, not like the field mice in the yard.

But I remembered the field mice, and I was so hungry.

Still, all I did was lick. At first.

I kept licking, and then I nibbled. Then I chewed.

When Rachel came, I thought they would punish me. But Rachel understood. She pulled me from the mess, wiped my face and took me up in her arms, and called me a good dog, and said it was her fault, even though it really wasn’t.

She is so good.