“Come on, Rx, give me something,” I plead with my terrier mix, who has forgone voiding his bowels in exchange for hopping into every pile of leaves he sees. He’s tiny, so the leaves swallow him up. I try to dissuade him from the piles, knowing it’s probably full of dog pee and god knows what else.

“Poop for Mommy. You can do it.”

I never thought I’d hear myself say those words out loud. I’m not exactly warm and cuddly. I’d go as far as to say that I’m kind of the opposite. I don’t know if I’ll ever have kids, and I definitely didn’t see sharing my life with a weird little mutant mutt named after a medical prescription, but here we are. I love the little guy. He’s my true companion. And he really has helped with my anxiety. I have my therapist Jenny to thank for that recommendation.

It’s chilly out. It’s November and I live in Chicago, so it’s only going to get colder over the next few weeks. I secretly kind of love the cold. I love how it numbs my face and fingers and toes. It makes home feel that much cozier. And I spend a lot of time at home. The majority of my time, actually. You might say I’m a bit of a homebody.

I finally manage to pull Rx away from the leaves, and we continue on our walk. The dog park is our morning and evening routine. The park is down a hill, which means that on cold days like this, mist gathers in patches above the ground. It’s eerie, like something out of one of those really early black and white thrillers with all of the cheesy fake fog. Perfect setting for a werewolf or a vampire or a serial killer to emerge. It makes the dog park look creepy with its bare patches of dirt and sparse grass. It’s not the most well-kept dog park, but it’s better than nothing.

I shiver. I don’t mind the cold, but I definitely didn’t dress warmly enough. I’m going to have to dig out my winter coat from my closet when I get home. I bounce in place, trying to warm myself up a bit.

I open the creaky gate to the dog park and close it behind me, letting Rx off the leash.

Immediately, he darts to the farthest corner, away from all the other dogs.

That’s what I love about this little guy. He’s a bit of a loner, like me, and has a ton of social anxiety. We’ve made a lot of progress over the past couple of months. I know the purpose of me getting an emotional support dog was for me to get emotional support, not to emotionally support another creature. But we make a good team. We make each other brave.

A Welsh corgi bumbles over to Rx and my dog tentatively says hello, allowing the corgi to feast its nostrils in his rectum. Rx looks nervous, but he ever so slightly wags his wiry little tail before hiding under a bench.

Usually when I’m at the dog park, I pop my earbuds in and continue listening to whatever true crime podcast I’d started listening to earlier in the day. It’s pretty much my routine while I wait for Rx to do his business.

I’m obsessed with true crime. I have about seventy podcasts that I’m subscribed to, and I take my listening schedule very seriously. I’ll listen while I’m doing mundane things like washing the dishes, eating, walking the dog. I even found a way to make it so that I could listen in the shower, which I know is pretty weird. Thanks to Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho, the shower is the last place most people want to hear about people getting murdered. But I can’t get enough of it.

The misty dog park is a great visual accompaniment for listening to all things mystery and murder. But not today. Today is different. Today, I’m sans earbuds.

“Why do you feel the need to always separate yourself from the world?” Jenny asked me in a recent session. “If you always have your earbuds in, you have a guard up. People aren’t able to approach you.”

I wanted to tell her, exactly. That’s what I like about it. The little white devices sticking out of my ears signal to others that I don’t want to be bothered.

Jenny asked me if I was afraid of connection. I didn’t have a solid answer for her at the time. Statistically, the world is a dangerous place. People get murdered all the time. It happens more often than anyone would think, and think about all of the murders that haven’t even been solved, that we’re not even aware of. Anyone could suddenly disappear, never to be heard from again. It doesn’t matter who you are. Murderers don’t care about your wealth, your status, your goals, your dreams. It doesn’t matter if you just got that promotion or just booked a vacation to Europe. They don’t care that you’re your parents’ caretaker or you’re already having the shittiest day of your life. Anyone can be murdered. Killers don’t discriminate.

I didn’t tell this to Jenny, though. She probably thinks I’m crazy enough as it is.

“I want you to try an exercise,” Jenny had said, and I’d groaned, inwardly. I hate homework. Especially therapy homework.

“Before our next session, I want you to engage a stranger in conversation.”

“What? Come on, Jenny. Can’t I just do a writing exercise? I don’t want to talk to people,” I protested.

“That’s exactly why I want you to do this. I want you to challenge yourself. You’ll never get more comfortable around people if you continue to close yourself off. It doesn’t have to be a lengthy discussion.”

“What the hell am I supposed to say? ‘Hi, my therapist thinks I’m antisocial, please talk to me so she won’t get mad at me?’”

“If you can’t think of anything to say, start with a compliment,” Jenny suggested. “People love to be complimented. Or ask them a simple question. How is the book they’re reading? How is the coffee they’re drinking?”

“That’s pretty lame, Jenny.”

Jenny smiled, pushing her glasses back up the bridge of her nose. “I’m not asking you to be cool. I’m asking you to be social.”

Which brings me to today. My hands are itching to grab my earbuds. I could easily lie and make up a conversation I had with a stranger. But I’d feel too shitty lying to Jenny like that. She really has helped me a lot. She has some pretty good ideas sometimes.

Feeling like Rx, I stick to the side of the dog park, trying to rev myself up to go talk to someone. I scan the park. There’s only a couple of people out on this cold, foggy day. Slim pickings.

The two people I see look like they could either be victims or deep cover predators.

I can’t help but smile to myself.

They’re standing the prescribed distance away from one another. Six feet apart, or whatever. The new normal.

The younger man is slumped into his puffer coat. He looks like a slightly more handsome, goofier Jeffrey Dahmer. If he lacks the childhood horrors and alcoholism, then the resemblance is probably just an unfortunate coincidence. A labradoodle bounds up to him with a sopping wet tennis ball and he throws it for him.

I look at the other guy, who’s older and more heavyset. He looks a bit like John Wayne Gacy. His dog is a loud chihuahua wearing a little pink sweater. The Gacy lookalike speaks to his little princess in baby talk. Hard to imagine him killing young men or dressing up as a clown.

I shake my head, trying to rid my thoughts of serial killers. If I see everyone as a potential danger, I’ll never make a true connection with someone. I know that’s what Jenny would say, anyway.

I sigh, turning my head to see who else is a possible candidate for my awkward social experiment.

Wait. There’s a handsome man standing at the edge of the park. He looks like he’s in his twenties. He leans against the fence, watching the kids in the playground and chuckling at their antics. He wears a peacoat. He looks like a normal dude.

And he’s cute enough to maybe make this worth it.

I stand up a little straighter, glancing at Rx to make sure he’s okay before mustering up the courage to approach this guy.

Rx has found an abandoned tennis ball and is happily entertaining himself with it.

I take a deep breath and walk over to the man, taking care to stand six feet away from him. Admittedly, I kind of like this whole social distance thing. It gels with my lifestyle.

“I like your peacoat,” I say, remembering Jenny telling me that people like compliments.

The man doesn’t look at me. I realize that he doesn’t know that I’m talking to him. And how would he? I’m a stranger standing at a distance.

I try again.

“Do you like mist?” I ask, a bit louder.

Finally, he turns.

“I’m sorry?” he asks.

“Mist. It’s misty out.”

God, my social skills are rusty.

Luckily, the guy is pretty relaxed and down to earth.

“Sure is,” he says. “Could barely see my feet while I was walking Violet here.”

So far, so good.

“How’s your day going?” I try next.

“Can’t complain. Being a stay-at-home dad is more fulfilling than I expected.”

He points out his kid on the playground, a little blonde boy patiently waiting his turn on the swings. He’s got a shaggy bowl cut and a blue jacket. The resemblance is uncanny. Not to his father, though.

“He looks like Etan Patz,” I tell him.

“Who?” the man asks, his face puzzling.

“His disappearance inspired that whole practice of putting missing kids on milk cartons. He’s the original missing kid.”

“Ha,” the man says.

I’m not sure what “Ha” means. Am I blowing this?

Just then, Etan, or whatever the kid’s real name is, runs over and asks if he can pet my dog.

“He’s a little shy,” I warn him.

“What’s his name?” the kid asks, eyeing Rx with adoration.

“Rx.”

“Rex?” his dad asks.

“No, Rx. Like the prescription?”

I thought Rx’s name was funny in an ironic way, but this guy doesn’t even smile.

He nods at me and takes his son’s hand.

“Well, I’ve got to get some dinner for this guy,” he says, and breaks eye contact with me.

“Have a nice night,” I mumble, feeling my face flush.

Goddamnit. Am I doomed to be a social pariah forever?