Chandler found me in under two minutes.
He came around the back of the bleachers at a run, his phone still lit in his hand, and slowed when he saw me holding on to the silver Honda. He looked from my face to my scraped palms, then down at the gravel stuck to my leggings.
“Can you walk?”
“Yes,” I said, which might have been more convincing if my leg hadn’t given out the second I tried. He caught me before I hit the gravel again, got an arm around my waist, and didn’t let go until I was in the Jeep.
He didn’t ask why I hadn’t waited under the bleachers. The whole way home, the only thing he asked was whether I needed the heat turned up.
“What happened to your hands?”
Mrs. Casteel’s pencil stopped over her Saturday crossword. She peered over her reading glasses at the scabbed patches on my palms, the ones I’d tried to hide inside my fleece sleeves.
“Bernard caught a scent.” I reached for the sign-in binder, but she kept looking at me.
“That Samoyed has never pulled you off your feet in his entire life.”
“There’s a first time for everything.” I signed in at 9:01, suddenly fascinated by making the last letter of my name legible.
She kept studying me. I kept walking before she could ask anything else. The fluorescent lights made the adoption flyers on the corkboard swim, Maverick’s crooked-ear photo right in the center. I’d walked past that board for two years without ever needing to close my eyes for a second first.
Dad and Pops were still up when Chandler brought me home, stretched out together on the sofa under one blanket with an old western playing on the TV. Pops had his head on Dad’s shoulder, and Dad’s reading glasses were pushed up into his hair. The second they saw Chandler helping me through the doorway, Pops was on his feet, and Dad paused the movie in the middle of a gunfight. Pops settled me at the kitchen island and cleaned the scrapes on my palms while Dad asked whether I’d hit my head and what had happened to my leg. I told them I’d slipped on the gravel, which was technically true if we ignored the part where my leg had stopped cooperating before I fell. Neither of them looked convinced.
Dr. Kerr’s office was closed on weekends, and the MRI was still waiting on insurance. After last night, nobody in my house was willing to wait anymore. Dad had called the on-call nurse before breakfast, and she’d said urgent care, today. We were going right after my shift. Dad had also emailed Coach Mathieson that I wouldn’t be back until a doctor cleared me.
I’d argued for Happy Paws because Miss Davison was counting on me for Dashiell. Dad finally agreed to a short, seated training session, provided I stayed off my leg and called if the pain got worse. Then he called Miss Davison to tell her so himself, which was humiliating. Pops repeated those conditions at breakfast, watching me over his coffee until I promised.
The walk in from the truck had already broken the part about staying off my leg. Happy Paws was supposed to be the one place where I knew what I was doing. The week everything with Tahni fell apart freshman year, I’d come in on a weekday and scrubbed kennel drains for four hours straight until my head cleared. I’d rehabilitated a cattle dog mix who’d bitten three adult volunteers before me. Here, I knew which dogs needed space, which ones needed patience, and which ones would sell their souls for a piece of freeze-dried liver.
I was supposed to stay at the desk until training. Instead, I took Maverick out for what I told myself would be one quick walk. He spent most of it trying to convince a fallen leaf to fight him. Every tug sent pain through my thigh, and by the time I returned him to his kennel, sweat had collected under my fleece. I avoided looking toward Miss Davison’s office.
Chandler was already in the training room when I finally made it there. I paused in the doorway. He sat cross-legged on the thick blue rubber mats with his back against the full-length mirror, the sleeves of his dark hoodie pushed up his forearms. Dashiell lay near the threshold, his chin resting across his paws as he watched Chandler from six feet away.
“You work Saturdays,” I said.
Chandler was supposed to be at Walmart from eight until two. Yet here he was, sitting on a training mat like this was where he’d always planned to spend his morning.
“Traded with a guy who needed Sunday off,” he said, keeping his eyes on the floor so Dashiell wouldn’t feel watched. “I’m working a double tomorrow. Manager approved it.”
“You got warned Thursday, and you asked to switch again?”
“I asked ahead this time.” He glanced up at me. “I’m just switching this weekend.”
I looked down at the mats. Last night, he’d stood in my kitchen while Pops cleaned my hands and never once mentioned the bleachers, or the fever, or how I’d ended up on the gravel. He’d let me answer their questions, even when he didn’t look happy with what I said.
“Thank you,” I said.
Chandler gave a small nod and turned his attention back to Dashiell. I lowered myself onto the mats across from him, moving slowly and keeping my left leg straight. It took a few tries to find a position that didn’t pull at my thigh. Once I settled, I reached for the clicker.
“Right. Approach work first.”
We kept the sessions short, with plenty of breaks so Dashiell could retreat to his mat whenever he needed to. He was having a better morning than usual. That should’ve made everything easier.
I started with touch drills, just me and Dashiell. Nose to open palm, click, soft liver treat. Then I passed Chandler the clicker and had him step in for the approach. He stood, walked to the far wall, turned sideways, and moved slowly along the mirror. He kept his eyes on the floor ahead of Dashiell, avoiding direct eye contact.
Dashiell’s ears pinned back, and his weight shifted onto his hindquarters. Chandler stopped without me having to say anything. He glanced toward me, waiting, and I gave a small nod.
Chandler eased into a crouch, angled his right shoulder away from the dog, and let his hands hang loosely between his knees. It took Dashiell nearly a full minute to move. Then he crossed the last six feet on his own and pressed his damp nose against Chandler’s knee, then his wrist, then the cuff of his sleeve. His body stayed stretched forward, his back paws ready to carry him away, but the tip of his tail lifted.
“Now,” I whispered.
Chandler clicked a fraction too late, then tossed a peanut butter treat that bounced off Dashiell’s snout. The dog picked it up anyway, willing to forgive a rookie mistake.
“Bad timing,” Chandler admitted, watching Dashiell chew.
“A little quicker next time,” I said. “But he came to you. That’s what matters.”
“He came right up to me.” Chandler looked at me, so openly pleased that I had to look away.
“I saw.” I kept my face neutral, though my back teeth were clamped together hard enough to ache.
I’d spent three weeks in August reading my biology packet aloud on cold concrete just to get Dashiell near the gate. Chandler had been here exactly twice, and Dash had crossed the room for him.
“That was really good,” I said. I meant it. I also wished it hadn’t come so easily.
Chandler’s smile faded. I reached into the treat pouch, then sat there with my hand inside it until he said my name.
“What?” I pulled out a treat.
“Did you sleep at all?”
“Some.” I broke the treat into pieces, watching the crumbs collect on the mat. “Bernard kept moving around.”
He set the clicker between us. “We can stop for a bit.”
“We just took a break.”
“I meant you.”
I brushed the crumbs off my leggings and reached for the lead. “I’m already sitting down, Chandler. Can we just do the leash transfer?”
He looked at me for another second, then picked up his end of the lead. We practiced passing it between us without crowding Dashiell, followed by a few brief handling exercises. For the novel-object drill, Miss Davison had left a battered yellow umbrella in the corner. I opened it slowly, but Dashiell still retreated behind my legs, trembling against my calf.
We went back to leaving the umbrella closed on the floor. After a while, Dashiell edged toward Chandler, paused beside his sneaker, then retreated to his mat. I should’ve been thrilled. Instead, I kept watching the spot where he’d stood beside Chandler, my grip tightening on the lead.
I checked the clock. We had time for one short session in the play yard before Pops came to take me to urgent care. I knew what I’d promised Dad. I clipped on Dashiell’s long lead anyway.
The back exit of the training room led down to the play yard through a set of shallow concrete steps. I’d run down them hundreds of times without thinking. Today, I took the long loop around the corner to the wooden ramp built for the supply wheelbarrows, walking down the incline with Dashiell’s lead in my hand like it was just my normal route.
Behind me, Chandler took the concrete steps. He didn’t say a word, but his eyes tracked the ramp, then my back, the way he’d watched me by the elevator at the end of Hall A.
The yard smelled like crushed grass, dry cottonwood leaves, and the pine breeze coming off the trail behind the cedar fence. The gravel in the center looked painfully sharp in the hard fall light. Near the fence, the kiddie pool was half full, and the hose from the outdoor spigot leaked a steady stream that darkened the dirt.
I’d just stepped onto the gravel when a delivery truck braked hard on the road beyond the cedar fence. Its air brakes let out a long, hissing shriek.
Dashiell bolted. He hit the end of the long lead so hard it yanked my arm forward, and I didn’t think. I lunged after him instead of letting go and planted my left leg to stop us both.
It didn’t hold. Pain tore through my thigh, and my leg folded beneath me.
Chandler caught me around the ribs before I hit the ground. His other arm braced my shoulders, keeping me from landing hard on the gravel. The red nylon lead slipped from my fingers. Somewhere to the left, Dashiell scrambled toward the far corner, his claws clicking in panic.
Chandler dropped to one knee, keeping me upright against him while he tried to steady us both. I opened my mouth, but my lungs refused to pull in air.
“I’ve got you, Sloane. Don’t move.” His voice sounded rough near my ear. He stayed where he was, supporting me while I tried to catch my breath. My left foot hovered above the gravel. Putting it down wasn’t an option.
“I’m fine,” I managed. “I just moved too fast.”
“You moved because he did.” Chandler glanced toward the corner, where Dashiell had pressed himself against the fence. “I watched your leg give out.” He shifted so I could lean against him without putting weight on it. “Just like last night.”
“I had to grab him.” I tried to straighten and caught his sleeve when pain stopped me. “Let go of me. I can stand.”
“Wait. Just let me help.” His grip stayed firm, but his voice didn’t rise. “You can’t put weight on it.”
I looked past him toward Dashiell, who’d retreated to the fence. “You’re making a big deal out of nothing.”
“You fell last night. Now you can’t even stand.” Chandler swallowed and looked directly at me. “You’re scaring me, Sloane. Please stop saying you’re fine.”
I turned my face toward the fence, where Dashiell stood watching us. Chandler was still supporting most of my weight, his sleeve caught in my fist, and I couldn’t bring myself to look at him.
If I told him how long it had been hurting, he’d want to know why I hadn’t said anything sooner. I didn’t have an answer that wouldn’t make me sound as scared as I felt. He adjusted his arm when I tried to move, and I pushed against it.
“You’re not my brother,” I said, each word coming out sharper than the last. “And you’re not my boyfriend. You’re the guy who holds the other end of the leash. Start acting like it.”
Chandler went still. His hands loosened slightly on my fleece, though he kept supporting me. For a moment, neither of us moved. He was looking at me now, but I couldn’t hold his gaze.
I wanted to take it back. Chandler shifted carefully to keep me off my left leg, his eyes on the fence instead of my face, and I couldn’t get the words out.
Across the yard, the training room window reflected the midday glare. Miss Davison stood on the other side of the glass, clipboard clutched against her chest. She disappeared from view, and a moment later, the yard door swung open.
“Easy.” Miss Davison crossed the gravel toward us, already pulling out her phone. “Chandler, help her onto that bench. Don’t let her put weight on the left leg. I’m calling her dads.”
“I can walk,” I protested, which was an interesting claim to make while Chandler was holding me upright.
“Then you can tell them that yourself.” She glanced at my face. “Your dad said seated work only. I should’ve checked on you. You’re done for today.”
Chandler helped me to a bench near the door. Miss Davison asked whether I’d hit my head or felt faint, then got Pops on the phone, explained what she’d seen, and told him I needed to be examined today. When I started shaking again, she stayed beside me and kept asking how I felt while another volunteer brought Dashiell safely inside.
I sat with my hands tucked under my arms while Chandler stood a few steps away, close enough to help if I needed him. Neither of us looked at the other.
Pops arrived well before my one o’clock shift ended. He crouched in front of me, took one look at the way I was holding my leg, and stopped asking whether I was all right. Dad had called ahead to urgent care, he said. We were going straight there, earlier than planned.
I wanted to argue that everyone was overreacting. I couldn’t even stand without help, so the argument stayed in my throat.
Pops helped me into the passenger seat and made sure I could keep my left leg as still as possible. Every bump in the road made me grip the door handle harder. He kept one hand on the wheel and asked me to tell him when the pain changed or if I felt faint again.
Dad called through the truck speakers to ask how far we were from urgent care. Pops answered without taking his eyes off the road. When the call ended, the silence between us felt bigger than before.
I stared out the window. Somewhere behind us, Chandler was probably helping Miss Davison put away the training supplies, and the last thing I’d said to him was that he was only the guy holding the other end of the leash.
I’d wanted him to stop looking at me like something was wrong. Now everyone was looking, and I couldn’t blame any of them.