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There is a photograph I carry of my parent Trukor. He lives in Sydney; I live far enough away that visiting is not a thing done on short notice, and lately there is less time than there used to be, because he has been unwell, thinner than I like to see him, and I have started letting myself think in terms of what's left rather than what's next. In the photograph he is resting, a dog's head against his leg. The dog's weight is slack and certain, the way animals know when someone needs them. I have never met this dog, and I will not; the distance between us is not the kind you cross in an afternoon, and even if it were, I'm not sure it's the dog I'd be going for.