“Hello?” I called into the hallway. My voice echoed back to me, and I took another step inside. “I’m, um, from Dave and Maya’s Pet Care,” I called, suddenly unsure if I should be calling out for a dog or a human. “Who’s ready to go on a walk?” I said in my best dog-excitement voice. I was about to call the dog, but stopped when I realized I didn’t know his name. I reached for my phone, but hesitated. I knew I couldn’t keep texting Maya for every little thing or she was going to regret ever hiring me.

I walked down the hall, still expecting that any second now I’d see or hear the dog I was there to walk. There were framed pictures evenly spaced down the hallway, most showing a couple, a man and a woman who looked like they were in their fifties. Most of the pictures looked professionally taken and framed, the couple usually in black-and-white, in formal wear or more casual, with the beach in the background. I paused briefly in front of what looked like a framed book cover—but it looked old, like from the thirties. The Most of Jeeves and Wooster, the cover read, and I looked at it for a moment longer before continuing on.

I walked to the end of the hallway, gripping the leash, still a little disconcerted that I hadn’t heard or seen a dog—or even spotted any dog stuff—anywhere. For a moment I panicked, worried I was in the wrong house. But then my rational brain took over, pointing out that if I was in the wrong house, the key wouldn’t have worked to let me in. I was about to call out again, but stopped, my train of thought temporarily derailed as I took in what was in front of me.

Books were everywhere. Not in haphazard piles—there was absolutely nothing about this place that seemed haphazard—but there were floor-to-ceiling built-ins on all sides of this very large room, and they were absolutely crammed with books. It was the kind of room—big couches, comfy chairs—that you would expect a TV in, but I didn’t see one anywhere. All I could see were books.

“Hello?” I could hear a voice, a hesitant one. It sounded like a guy’s, and like it was in the same room as me. I whirled around once, then twice, trying to figure out what was going on, until I realized that there was an intercom covered in the same taupe paint as the walls.

“Hi!” I said, walking toward the intercom, then pausing in front of it. Had the guy heard me? I tentatively pushed the talk button. “Hi,” I said again, probably louder than I needed to, if this was working. “I’m the dog walker? I’m here to walk . . . your dog,” I finished, wishing once again that I knew the dog’s name and hoping that Bri had been alone in her opinion that this sounded somehow dirty.

“Oh, right,” the voice said. It sounded somehow familiar, but maybe everyone’s voice started to sound the same when coming through an intercom. “We’ll be right there. Meet you in the kitchen.”

I heard a click that I assumed meant the guy was gone before I could ask where the kitchen was. But it didn’t take long to find it—it was next to the book room, taking up most of the back of the house, with big picture windows that looked out onto the backyard—an expanse of green with a large pool right in the middle. The kitchen was perfectly neat, like maybe nobody had ever cooked in there. But in keeping with the theme of the house, there were also piles of books in here, brightly colored cookbooks lining packed shelves.

“Hi,” a voice behind me said. I turned around, my best professional-dog-walker smile fixed on my face, but felt it falter, and my eyes widen, as I realized I knew the person standing across this immaculate kitchen from me. It was Clark, the guy with the white dog, the one I’d run into twice before. He was wearing jeans and a soft-looking plaid shirt, and his short brown hair was slightly askew, like he’d been running his fingers through it. He must have recognized me too, because his eyebrows flew up behind his glasses. “Oh,” he said, sounding surprised. “I didn’t know that—”

But whatever he’d started to say was totally lost as his dog barreled around the corner, nails scrabbling on the wooden floor, tail wagging furiously, as he headed right toward me.

“Bertie!” Clark yelled, lunging for the collar and missing as the dog jumped up on me, sending me tipping off-balance and back into the kitchen cabinets. “I’m sorry,” Clark said, yanking him back as the dog enthusiastically tried to lick my face.

“No, it’s fine,” I said, feeling like I needed to start asserting some kind of dog-walker authority in this situation. “How are you doing, buddy?” I asked, kneeling down, even though now the dog was taller than I was. I looked up at him and gave his head a gentle pat. “You ready to go for a walk?” “Walk” seemed to be a word this dog knew, as he immediately sat, his tail thumping rapidly on the ground. I reached for his collar, but Bertie immediately bolted, galloping out of the room as fast as he’d come in.

“Whoops,” Clark said, looking chagrined. “Um, sorry. I guess I should have . . . It’s like he thinks it’s a game. Every time I try to get his leash on, he runs away.”

“Oh,” I said, looking in the direction where the dog had gone, like this would give me some more information. I took a step toward the kitchen door. “Should I—” Before I could say anything else, Bertie barreled in again, stopping in the center of the room, giving us both the dog smile I’d seen that first day with him. His tail was wagging so hard that his whole back half was swinging from side to side. I took a cautious step toward him, but Bertie jumped in the air and ran as fast as he could out the door again.