I went to the window, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. The security light hummed to life, illuminating the memorial garden my son-in-law, Derek, had so “graciously” built for my late husband. And there, in the center of the rose bed, was a ghost.

It was the dog. Alive. Matting dirt flying behind him as he dug with a manic intensity, focused on the exact spot Derek had been obsessed with for weeks. The same spot Derek had nearly lost his mind trying to keep the dog away from.

I didn’t scream. I didn’t call the police. I unlocked the back door and walked out into the humid night air. The dog looked up at me once—his eyes dark, intelligent, and exhausted—then went right back to digging like his life depended on it.

So, I fell to my knees in the dirt beside him. I didn’t care about my nightgown. I didn’t care about the mud. I plunged my hands into the soil and helped him dig.