The Old Dog at the End of the Shelter Row

That was the moment the old dog stopped watching the door.

I know how strange that sounds.

But I was there.

And I saw it happen.

My name is Margaret Collins. I’m fifty-one years old, divorced, childless, and living alone in a small apartment outside Indianapolis. I work long hours as an insurance claims processor, which is about as exciting as it sounds. My life had become predictable in the worst possible way.

Wake up.

Coffee.

Work.