I crouch down as I stare into the cage, wishing the dog would stop tucking her head under her body. If she doesn’t adjust, she’s never going to get adopted. “Can’t anyone foster her?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.

“Beth tried,” Barb says. “But she has other dogs, so it wasn’t working. Goldie here wasn’t aggressive or anything—she was just terrified. She ended up urinating and defecating in the house just like she does in her cage. Beth and her husband tried kennel training her, but then she wouldn’t come out of the kennel. It was just too much.”

I nod in understanding. Beth is almost as tiny as I am, and I can’t imagine her trying to pick up a urine-soaked golden Chow and carrying her outside for every single bathroom trip.

“How is she on walks?” I ask softly, still holding out hope that the golden will at least glance in my direction.

“She just balls up until Gabe brings her back inside,” Barb says. “He’s doing his best with her . . . but we don’t call you the dog whisperer for nothing, Hailey.”

I glance up at Barb from where I’m still crouched in front of the cage, and she gives me a weak smile.

“What do you want me to do?” I ask.

“I don’t know. But I know you’ll figure it out.”

That night, after ordering the meatiest, greasiest, grossest thing on McDonald’s menu, I sleep in a cage. With a McDouble unwrapped and resting on my lap, I sit at the opposite corner of the cage from the golden Chow, and I try coaxing her out of her shell.

I had tried offering her a piece of warm burger, but she only shivered in fear. Then I tried simply sitting next to her, but when I realized she wasn’t going to stop shaking, I moved to the opposite corner.

I talk to her about how much I miss my boyfriend. I tell her about his tour, about the pictures he’s sent me from Canada and China and Korea, about the food he’s eaten in those places and how I really hope I get to try kimchi someday. The burger grows cold as I tell her how pretty she is, as I make up fictional stories about the life she’s going to live once she gets adopted (beloved dog of a movie star, furbaby of a billionaire, spoiled pet of a sausage heiress), as I tell her about all the animals I miss back on my parents’ farm. We chat about Teacup the pig and Harley the horse and Moose the bull, and eventually, I give the dog a name: Phoenix, since I pray she rises from the ashes.

I don’t normally give the dogs names, since I’m always afraid of getting too attached, but Phoenix deserves a name, and a strong one. She eventually untucks her head from her body, watching me with her chin on her front paws as I talk. And when I run out of things to say, I offer her more burger, and I sing. She doesn’t come to me, but her tail wags ever so slightly, so I lower the burger and continue singing. And when I run out of songs, I hum songs I make up myself.

I’m sleeping when I feel something wet on my hand, and my eyelids sneak open to see Phoenix sniffing at me. Her cold nose pokes at my knuckles, and I stay still as a statue as she inspects me. I don’t even know what time it is, but the sharp ache in my back tells me that I’ve spent more than a couple hours sitting on the concrete floor.

I ignore the pain in my spine as I continue watching Phoenix check me out. She sniffs the burger but ignores it, smelling my shirt, my pants, my hand again. She nuzzles her nose under my palm, and I hold my breath. She nuzzles her nose under further, and I gently move my fingers against her fur.

Phoenix lets out a sharp cry at the movement, and I jerk my hand away, fearing I hurt her still-patchy snout, which just a week and a half ago had still been wrapped in duct tape. But as soon as I pull away, she pushes against me again, crying even louder when I try to yank my hand away again. Eventually, I realize she’s crying because she’s scared, because she wants me to protect her, and I pull her big body into my lap as she yelps and whimpers and cries.

“It’s okay,” I croon, trying to soothe her. “It’s okay, pretty girl. I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Good girl. You’re such a good girl.”

I hold her as she trembles in my arms and tries to push herself even further into the circle of my body, and I don’t know when I start crying, but at the back of that kennel, I cry along with her. My tears drip onto her golden fur as she leans on me for support, as she gives me her trust, and I try to show her a lifetime’s worth of love in the way I squeeze her against me, the way I pet my hands over her precious face.

I hold her for hours like that, letting her lick my face and my arms and my hands as I pet her. I continue talking to her—about the meaning of her name, about the importance of eating, about the fact that I’m a vegetarian. She eventually falls asleep in my arms, and I don’t leave until the following morning, when Barb arrives back at the shelter and orders me to go home. She smiles in spite of the sternness in her voice, thanking me for staying overnight but insisting I can’t live there, and I cry on my drive home about the panicked look in Phoenix’s eyes when I left her at the shelter.

For the next few days, I spend absolutely all of my free time there. If I’m not at school, sleeping, or taking care of necessary things like homework or personal hygiene, I’m working with Phoenix. On the third day, I get her to let me walk her the whole way outside, and it’s such a huge step, I call Mike to celebrate as soon as I get the chance.

“This is Mike,” his voice mail says. “Leave a message.”

“Hey,” I start, shouldering my phone as I rush onto campus to try to make my first class on time. I’m speed-walking down a sidewalk with a messenger bag slipping from my shoulder and a rock wiggling around inside my shoe. “I know you’re probably onstage right now, but I just wanted to tell you I finally got that dog I told you about to go outside today. All on her own!” I smile and try to shrug the messenger bag back up onto my shoulder. “She still won’t let anyone else touch her, but . . . I’m just really excited, and I wanted to tell you.”