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ten dollars for yourself, because we’re a family and my good luck is everybody’s good luck.”
    Kaylie stared at her. Amy got what she’d hoped for: a phantom in her mind, just for a quick second, of the Kaylie that Amy remembered, the bouncy little girl who had adored her big sister. The phantom Kaylie, dressed in pink overalls with a bunny embroidered on the front, laughed and reached out her arms to Amy before vanishing.
    The sulky fifteen-year-old beauty in front of Amy said, “You’d trust me with the rent?”
    “Yes.”
    “How do you know I won’t just spend it instead of giving it to Mrs. Raduski?”
    “I know.” Was knowledge the same as hope?
    “You’re right,” Kaylie said. “I’ll go now.”
    “Then come back and have a sandwich.”
    “OK.” But at the door Kaylie turned back. “Is there an extra ten dollars for you, too?”
    “Yes,” Amy lied.
    “Good. Then get yourself something to wear at the Thrift Value so you don’t have to steal my good sweater again.”
    Amy didn’t answer. Kaylie took the rent downstairs. Amy opened the apartment door a crack and held her breath as she listened to Kaylie’s footsteps on the worn wooden stairs, her knock on Mrs. Raduski’s door, the frantic snarling of Buddy on his choke chain. Kaylie started back upstairs and Amy darted back to the tiny counter in the galley kitchen. Kaylie had given over the money. Of course, Amy had warned Mrs. Raduski how and when it was coming, and if Kaylie had headed out the front door instead, she would have been followed by both the landlady and her vicious dog.
    Always best to hedge your bets.
    “Amy?” Gran called feebly.
    “Right there, Gran!” She opened the bedroom door.
    “Are there any bananas?”
    “No, Mr. Fu said the delivery didn’t come. But I’m making you a cheese and turkey sandwich. Here, drink this milk—just like you used to tell me to do!”
    Gran said quietly, “But you were a child, and I am not. Amy, is Kayla in trouble?”
    “No. She was. It’s OK now, I fixed it. Kaylie’s just . . .” What? Trouble, yes. From the time she’d outgrown those pink overalls, Kaylie had been trouble.
    “Is she using?”
    Looking at the intelligent old eyes in the pain-ridden face, Amy couldn’t lie anymore. “I don’t know for sure. I hope not. But she’s running with a rough crowd.”
    “Tell her that anything harder than pot will eventually affect her looks.”
    Amy blinked. It was a cynical piece of advice, based on a thorough knowledge of both her granddaughters. Amy nodded.
    “And tell Mr. Fu,” Gran added, “that he should read the flimsies more, or however he gets his news. Agricultural imports rose half a percent last month. We’re in economic recovery. Even the president says so.”
    Amy smiled uncertainly. Sometimes she couldn’t tell when Gran was being ironic and when she wasn’t. Was the country going to stop trailing behind China and India and even Europe in everything? Was Amy’s new job due to some fragile economic recovery?
    It didn’t matter what it was due to. It only mattered that she had it. She and Kaylie made thick, satisfying sandwiches. Kaylie even helped Amy clean up. Then, while Gran slept and Kaylie went to spend her ten dollars, Amy went to her Friday-night shift in the restaurant kitchen, her last shift. She told Charlie she was leaving. She bussed tables and scraped dishes and loaded and unloaded the ancient, unreliable dishwasher. By eleven o’clock she was exhausted, sweaty, and stinking. She caught the bus home, got off in front of Mr. Fu’s grocery, which was closed and shuttered, and that was when she saw the dog up in the tree.
    * * *
    A dog? In a
tree
?
    At first Amy wasn’t sure what she was seeing. The street was deserted and dark. Amy hurried along, cold in her thin old jacket, her can of pepper spray in her hand, anxious to get safely into her building. When she heard barking, she stopped and gazed around. More barking. She looked up. An