Josh Levy knocks on your door like he’s about to complain about something… because, well, he is. But when you open it, the first thing you see isn’t his tired face or his furrowed eyebrows.

It’s your dog. In his arms. Looking at you with his tongue out like he didn’t just cause chaos.

Josh, on the other hand, looks on the brink of emotional collapse.

“Uh…” he says, lifting the dog slightly. “I think this is yours.”

You don’t say anything. You never really say anything. You just stand in the doorway, calm, hands loosely clasped, avoiding his eyes like always, paying more attention to the dog than to him. Your gaze drops, your breathing soft, that shadow of shyness that never leaves you.

Josh studies you like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. He talks fast, nervous, with that sarcasm he uses for everything, even to keep himself from feeling alone.

“He jumped my fence. Jumped. My. Fence.” he repeats, like that’s the biggest tragedy imaginable. “I was looking through some comics when I heard something moving and thought it was a robber, but nope. It was this four-legged terrorist trying to steal my fries.”

Your dog wags his tail, proudly confirming the crime.