Dog Crazy by Meg Donohue

our slogan,” he explains. “ ‘Sleep like Royalty’!”
    â€œOh, well . . . I’ve only been in the area a few months,” I say. “I’m from the East Coast.”
    Terrence brightens. “New to San Francisco! If you’re in need of a mattress . . .” He pulls a business card from his pocket and hands it to me. “We have one store in the city and last year we opened two more in—”
    â€œTerrence,” Clive interrupts. “Let it go. You’re being as dogged as the merciless march of time.” He looks at me and smiles a smile that stops on his lips. “That was for you, Maggie. A little pet bereavement humor.”
    â€œHilarious,” Anya says.
    â€œRight, well,” Terrence murmurs to me. “Call the number andask for me. I’ll make sure you get a good deal. A good night’s sleep is so important.”
    â€œThank you,” I say. These days, I think I’d do almost anything for a good night’s sleep, so I tuck his card into my pocket.
    Clive’s humor, such as it is, seems to have run its course. His voice turns clipped. “If you two latecomers would deign to join us, I might have time to do something other than eat breakfast during this century.”
    â€œIs there enough?” Huan asks. “I don’t want to impose.”
    â€œAnya cooked!” Rosie says, masterfully arching an eyebrow.
    â€œIn other words,” says Clive, “there’s plenty.”
    Anya crosses her arms in front of her. “Oh, just sit down.”
    Huan, blushing, pulls out the chair on the other side of Anya. Terrence sits down heavily between Clive and Huan.
    â€œTerrence,” Rosie calls from the other end of the table, “that’s my seat!”
    Terrence struggles to his feet, his face red, and Rosie begins to laugh.
    â€œI’m only teasing. When’s the last time you saw me sit anywhere but this damn wheelchair?” She cranes her head and searches the table until she catches my eye. She winks. “Terrence takes everything very seriously,” she says, as though we’re the only two people in the room. I smile.
    â€œIt’s a good thing he does,” Clive mutters. “For your sake.” Rosie is still looking at me and I’m not sure she hears him.
    Sitting in the midst of this uneasy breakfast, I can’t help but wonder why Anya told me to come today, at this particular time. She must have had a reason. I decide to do what I do best: listen.
    â€œWhere are Laura and the kids this morning?” Henry asks Terrence.
    â€œThe mall.” Terrence crunches loudly into a piece of toast and his mustache immediately grows shiny with butter. He reminds me of a cartoon walrus. As far as Ravenhurst brothers go, I decide he might be the best of the bunch; I’d take his earnestness over Henry’s distrust and Clive’s derision any day.
    Clive holds up a forkful of eggs and peers at it, turning the fork in his hand so it catches the light. A speckled piece of egg falls to his plate. “Say, Anya, what kind of fancy tricks are they teaching you at that culinary arts class at City College?”
    â€œIt’s a photography class,” Anya says. “And I’m not going.”
    â€œYou’re not?” Henry asks. “Since when?”
    Anya is staring at the camera that is tattooed on the back of her hand and doesn’t answer. I remember her telling me that she doesn’t take photographs anymore. What would it be like to abandon something you love, only to have to look at a reminder of what you’ve given up every day for the rest of your life?
    Rosie taps a pale finger against her temple. “As long as you’re still shooting in here,” she tells Anya.
    Anya gives her grandmother a shimmer of a smile, and her tense shoulders seem to drop an inch.
    Terrence turns to me. “Are you helping Anya look for Billy?”
    Before I can