She stares at the headline. The thick, heavy lenses of her bifocals fog. She's so used to being called a dog by the other kids that she's started thinking of herself that way. But she knows better than to get her hopes up. She goes in the bathroom, washes off her glasses, fixes the barrette that's supposed to keep hair out of her eyes, sits on the floor with her back against the wall, takes a deep breath, and picks up the paper again. Oh. It's talking about pets. Matching dog owners up with other dog owners, sometimes renting a dog if need be. Even if a puppy was dropped on her doorstep, she wouldn't want it, though. And just because you don't like dogs doesn't make you a bad person. It might even make you a better person. She gets up, rummages in the bin for last Friday's paper. She remembers reading this, but wants to read it again just for confirmation. There it is: in New Orleans there are over 300 volunteers searching for the pets they have listed as missing, but there's no such list of missing men and women.