My dog was missing. Sometime, over the course of the past hour, someone, in the course of going about their business, had somehow left the front door open - and our whitening lab had slipped out into the soft autumn air. This wasn’t unusual; the dog had a funny predisposition to leave the house and return a few hours later, eyes brimming with memories of his journey. So I let my thoughts drift from the pup towards calculus homework as I settled down at the kitchen table. My pencil had just finished crossing out yet another line of incorrect integrals when the doorbell rang.
         Odd, at ten o’clock in the evening. I stood up, slightly concerned. A few, quiet seconds passed as the clock in the hallway ticked. But then it rang again. I dropped my pencil and scurried to the front door. It creaked as I opened it, abrading against its frame, but as its angle reached a sharp ninety degrees I suddenly froze.
         Standing on the porch was my dog, and holding onto my dog’s collar was a tangle of thick, coffee-colored hair.
         “Hey...” she cautioned. “He was at my house.”
         Her voice was edged, tentative. Understandably so. But underneath I could still hear her softness - the softness that, over a decade, had shared countless secrets with me, the softness that had kindled infinite laughs in me.
          “Oh.” I stared. I had forgotten her features. She had a nose like a child, and cheeks to match. But her eyes; I had mostly forgotten her deep, dark eyes, which I knew had seen things so far beyond my own. They glanced at me now. Had she forgiven me?
          “Do you want to come in?” I didn’t know what else to say.
          She shifted nervously. “I mean…”
          “No… I understand. Thank you, though. For bringing him back.” I swallowed.
          At my words, something seemed to shift.
         “Maybe just for a minute.” She stared into the doorway, and, with a slight inhale from us both, she entered. We treaded to the kitchen awkwardly, and I offered her a drink. Maybe something to eat? Small talk. How’ve you been? How’s the parents? Seen any good movies - oh no, I heard that one wasn’t very funny. We petted the dog. We avoided eye contact. Our tones remained monotonous, because this was cordial, safe. This was masking the hole that I had bored two years ago. And then I noticed that she was wearing that jacket that had smelled like smoke and, as if the floodgates ruptured above me, a thousand memories came crashing down; because this - this - this was the smell that I had reported, the smell that ruined not just our friendship but also her future. It lingered, and I was drowning.
          She cleared her throat as the conversation lulled. “Well, I really should get home.”
          I blinked. “Of course. And I have to study for some tests, too…”
          She rose. But my heart ached and I knew that two years might easily multiply into dozens more. This was my last chance - three little words. Three little words.
         “Please - I’m so sorry.”
          My voice caught as I spoke and my eyes began to well. I jumped and embraced her tall figure that felt so foreign in my arms, and I shook against it as I wept. Questions that I had carefully packed away flooded my mind: was I right to report that, so long ago? Did I help, or did I hurt? What had happened to her? What had happened to us?
          Seconds passed. Slowly, so slowly that it felt as though the entire universe had stopped to watch this very moment, she gently wrapped her arms around me. And for now, that was all I needed to know. That she forgave me.
           My dog had gone missing. But my best friend had returned.