The dog refused to cross the threshold, no matter how hard she pulled on the leash. Buster was a seventy-pound Golden Retriever whose default setting was "aggressive compliance," but at the door of Apartment 4C, he turned into a limestone statue. Maya tugged the leash until the nylon bit into her palm. "It’s just hardwood, Buster. High-gloss, non-threatening hardwood." The dog’s claws scraped the hallway carpet as he braced himself. He wasn't looking at the floor; he was staring at the empty air exactly three feet inside the door. Maya tried the "Sweet Talk," then the "Liver Treat Bribe," and finally, the "Brute Force." With a pathetic whimper, Buster finally launched himself over the threshold as if the floor were molten lava, skidding into the kitchen and hiding under the table. Maya exhaled, slamming the door. The move was done. The divorce was over. She had finally gotten the dog inside. Success. The evening was deceptively quiet until midnight. Maya lay on her mattress, exhausted, but Buster remained in the kitchen. A low, vibrating growl—a sound he had never made—echoed through the flat. Maya sat up. The air felt heavy, like the drop in pressure before a storm. She had spent all day thinking the "threshold" was the hurdle. She thought the struggle was about getting in. But then she saw the deep, fresh gouges on the inside of the bedroom door, and Buster wasn't looking at the hallway. He was staring at the ceiling. Only later did she realize that nothing had actually been resolved.