I was drunk when I drove home. The lines on the road knew. My car knew, as the dashboard calmly alerted me that I was swerving. I knew, too, and regretted my decision as and after I made it. When I finally got home, through the front door and into my bedroom, it was three in morning. I slipped under my comforter. I thought I could feel every misfiring synapses in my head as the room started spinning.

Before returning home, I had looked for something to crash my car into—a place where no one else would be harmed, where no property damage would be done, where I could be alone in my death for a few hours. But I never found anything. Maybe I was being too picky, or maybe I didn't really want to find the perfect place to die. The memory of that choice to try, though, mixed with all the bourbon in my stomach, quite easily made me feel simply awful. I propped myself up on an elbow and then sat up. To bring myself out of the past, I had to find focus in the present—a constant.

Through the window in my bedroom, I could see the moon hanging in the sky, as well as a street light helping to illuminate the block. When my eyes grew heavy enough to close for an extended instance, I could still see both of them, their light creating bright, side-by-side spots against my eyelids. It was like there was another set of eyes floating in the blankness of my mind. Eyes like a doe. Eyes like a dog. Eyes like Charlie's.

I called her for the first time in months. She needed to know about Raleigh. That had been her dog, too.

Charlie was still listed under my favorites. There was a little star by her name, like it meant anything. I looked up again at the moon, the street light, and the stars behind them both. I had been looking out that window the past few nights, trying to make some sense of where my life had led me, which was to that moment. I stood up and called her. I eagerly paced around the room while the phone rang, as I was known to do. She didn't like when I did it.

I stopped when she picked up.

"Hey, Chuck." She didn't like when I called her "Chuck," either.

Charlie cleared her throat and groggily said, "Remy, it's three in the morning. What—"

"I think it's even later than that." The room was still spinning. "But I needed to call you because of Raleigh."

"What about her? Is she okay?" I imagined her sitting up in bed and reaching for a bedside lamp.

"She's dead."

"What do you mean she's dead?" I pictured her flinching at the harsh light.

"What do you mean, 'what do you mean?' She died."

"No, what happened?"

"We were on the highway last week and she jumped out of the car."

"What—"

"Through the window," I was growing distraught, "like some fucking lunatic."

"Oh, my God." Her tone had changed, and I could hear her sadness. She probably rubbed the back of whoever was sleeping beside her, assuring them everything was okay. "Remy, I'm so, so sorry. That's awful. Are you okay?"

"She saw a deer and just took off. It was awful, Charlie. There were so many people who saw and... none of 'em did anything. You should've been there with—" I stubbed my toe on the foot of the bed and whimpered. Charlie didn't say anything on the other end. "Hello?"

"I'm still here."

"She's gone, Charlie. Are you listening? She's gone, just like that." I snapped my fingers.

"I'm sorry, Remy. Honestly, I am. She was such a great dog."

"I know." My gaze went out through the window again, toward the night sky.

I think Charlie said something else about Raleigh, but I had stopped listening. I couldn't focus on our conversation with the room still spinning and the moon still glowing like it was. I felt as if it was inviting me, calling on me to trade places with it. I wanted to look out over the planet and its people, to be lit up with the reflection of the sun in my eyes, and to pull the oceans back and forth with the weight of my world. And on any day I grew tired of the earthrise, I could turn my back and be graced by the spinning of the stars thrown out like grenades removed of their pins, detonating against the desert of space.

But I was brought back down to Earth when I heard my name: "Remy, why are you calling me today, of all days?"

"I just wanted to—"

"Remy, it's my birthday."

I was horrified. I hadn't forgotten it already, but I also hadn't realized what day it was. Each one had been slipping away.

"Have you been drinking?" she asked.

I stumbled and stuttered through a lie.

"Are you drunk? Did you drive?"

"Charlie, my dog died, okay? The least you can do—"

"Remy, I'm going to hang up now. I'm sorry about Raleigh. I loved her, too. I really did," she said, "but I have to go."

"What do you mean you 'did' love her?" Was she implying her love was gone? "Charlie—"

"Please don't call again." The line went dead.