At 2:13 in the morning, a bald little boy whispered that he missed his dog—and all I had was a yellow mop bucket.

Because kids say things adults don’t.

Adults say they’re tired. Kids say the real thing.

I asked his parents once, a few nights before, where they were from. Small town almost two hours away. His dad had been missing work. His mom was living out of a duffel bag. They were taking turns calling home, arguing with bills, talking to relatives, trying to sound hopeful for people they didn’t want pity from.

They had another child back home with an aunt.

And a dog.

The boy’s name was Eli.

The dog was a mutt named Duke who, according to Eli, was “part beagle, part vacuum cleaner, part best friend.”

I looked at the clock.

I looked at my mop bucket.

Then I reached into my pocket and pulled out a black marker I used for labeling supply bottles.

“You ever see a hospital dog this ugly?” I whispered.

He blinked.

I crouched down and drew two floppy ears on the side of the yellow bucket. Big cartoon ears. Then a nose. Then a lopsided grin.

Eli stared for one second.

Then two.

Then the corner of his mouth twitched.

I put the mop handle against the bucket like a tail. “This here,” I said, “is Duke’s night-shift cousin. His name is Bucket.”

That got a tiny laugh.