Chandler’s text had been sitting on my phone for a day and a half. How long has it been hurting? I’d read it twice after the game and once more before bed, which in my head counted as a productive conversation. On Friday, I’d made sure we were never alone long enough for him to ask in person.
Happy Paws smelled like oatmeal shampoo, rubber chew toys, and disinfectant. I pushed through the glass double doors at nine sharp on Saturday, past the two pots of half-dead mums Mrs. Casteel refused to replace, my left thigh protesting every step. She said the mums were fighters. I said they were compost with ambition.
She sat behind the reception desk in her lavender cardigan, reading glasses dangling from a beaded chain, a plate of covered lemon bars beside her crossword and the jar of dog treats. Without looking up, she slid the sign-in binder toward me. “Morning, Deshazo.”
“Morning.” I picked up the pen just as a long, wobbling howl rose from Hallway A and cracked at the top.
“Maverick’s been doing that since seven,” Mrs. Casteel said. “He thinks he’s a wolf.”
“He’s a sixty-pound Husky. I’m pretty sure he thinks he’s an entire wolf pack.”
“Don’t encourage him. His ego’s already a liability.”
I signed in and clipped on my badge, the one with the rust-colored stripe that said Cleared: All Dogs. In the picture, my ponytail was smooth and I looked like somebody who had her life together. I hooked a treat pouch onto my hip, slipped the clicker around my wrist, and picked up a lead.
Stetson had dropped me off before heading home. He’d driven with the windows up and answered me mostly in grunts. I’d kept my left leg still against the door, and getting out of his Lexus had taken longer than it should have. I’d waited until he turned the corner before letting myself limp the few steps to the entrance.
The main kennel room had twelve runs and whiteboards covered in Miss Davison’s tidy block letters. Kendra, the vet tech, was hosing down the last run. She raised a dripping glove in greeting without turning around.
I went down the row, saying hello to each dog before opening a gate. Maverick objected immediately, throwing his head back and howling, his one crooked ear flopping sideways.
“You’re getting your turn,” I told him. He answered with a strangled howl. “That is not how you negotiate.”
Maverick was a one-year-old Husky who’d been returned twice for having too much personality. That was the polite version. The less polite version involved shredded curtains, a destroyed screen door, and one family’s decorative pond. He was smart, dramatic, and convinced every walk should begin at full speed. We were working on recall and leash manners. Mostly, I was working, and Maverick was offering feedback at maximum volume.
At the far end of the row, Dashiell pressed himself into the back corner of his kennel. His gray-brown coat stuck up in uneven tufts, and his dark eyes followed the door even when the rest of him stayed perfectly still. He was a ten-month-old terrier mix, maybe thirty pounds, rescued in August with thirty other dogs from a hoarding situation.
For weeks, Dashiell hadn’t left that corner for anyone. Then, one afternoon, he’d come out for me, trembling so hard I thought he might retreat before he reached the gate. Miss Davison said it was because I was quiet and predictable. I thought Dashiell had simply decided I was the least alarming person in the building. Some days he still needed convincing. He could follow me all the way to the end of Hallway A, but the open lobby still stopped him cold.
“Morning, Dash,” I said through the kennel gate. His ears shifted toward me, and I smiled. That was all I asked for.
I started my assigned walks. Maverick tried to tow me across the play yard until I stopped and waited for the lead to loosen. He turned, offended, and came back just far enough to earn a treat. By the time I finished the other dogs’ walks and kennel duties, the ache in my thigh had settled into something steady. Steady, I could manage.
Later, when the room was quieter, I opened Dashiell’s kennel and sat just inside, facing the wall instead of him. I didn’t call him over. Four minutes passed before a cold nose touched my elbow. A moment later, his wiry body leaned against my back, his heartbeat fluttering through my fleece.
“Hey, buddy,” I whispered. “There you are.”
He stayed close when I stood, but the door to Hallway A rattled, and Dashiell ducked behind my knees. I rested a hand against my leg and waited for him to peek out. “It’s just Rhett. You’re fine.”
“Wow, thanks.” Rhett pushed the mop bucket through the doorway and caught the door before it banged shut.
“I’m talking to the dog.” I glanced down at Dashiell, who was still watching the bucket. “Can you leave that out there for a second?”
“Yeah, sorry.” Rhett backed it into the hall, and Dashiell’s nose appeared beside my knee.
Just before noon, I had a few minutes between regular duties and brought Dash into the training room. I sat against the mirrored wall with my left leg stretched in front of me. Bending it hurt more than keeping it straight, so straight it was.
Dashiell stood a few feet away, working through touch: nose to my palm, click, treat. He knew the game. With me, in a quiet room, he could almost forget to be afraid.
The door opened slowly. Dashiell slipped behind me a second before Miss Davison eased inside with a slim folder tucked under one arm and two coffees in a cardboard carrier. Her graying hair was twisted into its usual bun, one strand escaping beside her ear. She lowered herself onto the mat across from me, knees cracking.
That got my attention. Miss Davison believed floors were for dogs and teenagers.
“Front Range Second Chance called back,” she said, opening the folder to a green tab.
I stopped moving my hand. Three weeks ago, I’d helped Miss Davison send the Boulder rescue Dashiell’s records and my training notes. I’d checked my email at least twice a day since.
“They’re willing to consider him,” Miss Davison continued.
“But?” I asked, because there was always a but.
“They want to evaluate him here on March twenty-first. Their foster program’s full through the winter, and they don’t take anybody new until spring. And their evaluator wants to see him stay calm with two handlers. Not just you.” She turned the folder so I could read the highlighted requirement.
March. That was almost six months away. I looked at Dashiell. He had his chin pressed against my hip and one eye on the door. “I’m his primary trainer,” I said, even though she clearly knew that.
“You’re his only trainer,” she corrected. “If he won’t work with anybody else, they’ll say he isn’t ready for a foster home. And then I honestly don’t know what happens to him.”
More months in a kennel. Maybe a transfer somewhere that had room for him but less time for individual training. I scratched Dashiell behind the ear and watched him lean into my hand.
“I’ll find somebody,” I said, hoping I sounded more certain than I felt.
Miss Davison waited.
“Rhett?” I tried.
We both looked toward the hallway where the mop bucket had disappeared. “Somebody else,” I amended.
“The staff’s stretched thin, and the weekend volunteers haven’t put the time in with him. Whoever it is has to show up every week. Quiet introductions, probably Saturdays, and slow. Nobody forces anything just because there’s a date on the calendar.” She turned to a training schedule marked through March. “He needs to learn that you aren’t the only safe person in the world.”
“I can train him.”
“I know you can.” Her voice stayed gentle. “But you can’t be two people.”
I hated how reasonable she sounded. I rolled the clicker between my fingers while Dashiell watched it, hopeful for another treat. He’d trusted me enough to leave the corner. I should’ve been relieved that someone else could help him get farther. Instead, I pictured Dash turning toward another person when something scared him.
I squeezed the clicker until its edge bit into my palm. He needed a home, and he needed to feel safe with somebody besides me.
“I’ll ask around,” I said.
Miss Davison set a coffee beside me and stood. I left it untouched, staring at the empty line on the schedule where a second handler’s name should have been.
At 2:07, the lobby bell jingled, and Dashiell didn’t run. I glanced down at him before I looked toward the door.
My regular shift had ended at one. I’d finished my assigned dog walks and kennel work, but Miss Davison had asked me to stay for a scheduled behavior observation in the quieter afternoon lobby. We’d done one short session, taken a long break, and tried another. I sat on the stool behind the reception desk, recording everything in his training log, while Dashiell rested against my ankles beneath it.
For the first time, he’d crossed the threshold from Hallway A into the lobby on his own. He’d spent ten minutes sniffing the base of the reception desk and checking that I was still nearby. Usually, the bell was enough to send him straight back down the hall. This time, he only lifted his head.
Chandler stood inside the glass doors wearing his navy Walmart polo and a gray beanie pushed back from his forehead. His name tag was clipped crookedly. He’d worked his usual eight-to-two shift stocking shelves, and his shoulders sagged beneath the polo.
“You got here fast,” I said.
“Got off at two and came straight here.” He slid his phone into his pocket. “Stetson texted me to make sure I didn’t forget you.”
“He could’ve texted me.”
“He did. You left him on read.” Chandler let that sit for a beat. “You left me on read Thursday, too.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“I noticed.”
He didn’t push. His gaze dropped toward my feet, where Dashiell’s nose was poking out from under the desk.
Instead of approaching him or taking the bench along the wall where families waited, Chandler sat cross-legged on the lobby floor beside the donation bin, all six feet of him folding down until he was lower than the counter. He looked toward the adoption flyers on the corkboard and waited. No reaching. No coaxing. Not even the ridiculous baby voice people used on frightened dogs.
It took me a second to recognize it. That was exactly how I sat with Dash. I’d never explained any of it to Chandler. He’d just been watching me for longer than I’d noticed.
Dashiell stood. I held my pen above the training log, afraid even the scratch of it would ruin whatever was happening. Dash edged forward, one careful step at a time, his tail low. He stretched his neck toward Chandler’s sneaker and sniffed the rubber toe, then the frayed cuff of his jeans. Chandler kept looking at the flyers.
After a moment, Dashiell turned around and walked back beneath the desk to sit on my foot. I wrote it down, trying not to grin.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” Miss Davison said from the hallway.
I looked up. She was staring at Chandler, then at Dashiell, then back at Chandler.
“No,” I said before she could open her mouth.
“Sloane.”
“He works Saturdays. He has soccer. He has an actual life.” I looked at Chandler. “Supposedly.”
“I’m right here,” Chandler said, still studying the corkboard.
Miss Davison crossed the lobby and introduced herself. “Heather Davison. I run this place. How would you feel about helping with a dog who’s got an evaluation in March?”
Chandler shook her hand, then glanced at me and waited for me to say something.
“He doesn’t know anything about training dogs,” I told her.
“He knew enough not to crowd this one.” Miss Davison looked at Dashiell, who was peering out from behind my ankle. “That’s a good start. But it’s only a start.” She straightened and turned back to me. “You should ask him yourself.”
Of course Miss Davison left us alone. She had a gift for disappearing precisely when I needed backup.
Chandler stayed on the floor. Behind the wall, the washing machine thumped through its spin cycle. I set down my pen and tried to make the question sound smaller than it felt.
“Dash needs a second handler for the rescue evaluation. Somebody he can get used to over time. It would mean coming in regularly, probably on Saturdays, and sitting around doing nothing for a while. He might not let you touch him for weeks.”
“Okay,” Chandler said.
“That wasn’t the whole explanation.”
“I know. Keep going.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “There’s a schedule, and we’d have to work around your shifts. Miss Davison has to approve whoever helps, and it might be repetitive, and there’s no guarantee he’ll pass.”
Chandler looked at Dash, not me. “I want to try.”
Relief hit first. Then I pictured Dash choosing Chandler’s side of the room instead of mine. I hated that the second feeling could exist alongside the first.
“You don’t have to say yes just because I asked.”
“I know that, too.” He finally looked up. “I’m saying yes because I want to help him.”
Chandler had always been the person who showed up. For Stetson, for his dad, for me. I didn’t want Dash to become one more thing he agreed to because somebody needed him.
“I’m done at one, and you work until two,” I reminded him. “That’s not exactly a convenient overlap.”
“So we figure out a time that works. Maybe after my shift, if Miss Davison can do it.” He glanced at the donation bin. “We don’t have to solve the whole schedule on the floor today.”
“That’s suspiciously reasonable.”
“I have moments.”
Miss Davison returned with a clipboard before I could think of another objection. She went through the evaluation goals: accepting another person nearby, approaching voluntarily, eventually allowing handling and a leash transfer, and staying composed around unfamiliar objects. Each would come later, if Dash was ready. For now, she wanted Chandler to complete the volunteer paperwork and attend a few short, supervised sessions. A sniffed shoe was a beginning, not a breakthrough.
“I can handle sitting quietly,” Chandler told her.
“Excellent,” she said. “You’re ahead of several applicants already.” She glanced from him to me. “Two-fifteen, then. Saturdays. Sloane, that means staying an extra hour.”
“I know,” I said.
Mrs. Casteel came out of the supply closet and stopped at the sight of him beside the donation bin. “New furniture?” she asked.
“Temporary,” I told her.
“Shame. He doesn’t shed.”
Chandler looked down at the dog hair already clinging to his jeans. “Give it time.”
Dashiell edged out to sniff the air, then slipped behind my ankle again. I marked it in his log and closed it before I could talk myself into asking more of him.
When Miss Davison called an end to the observation, Chandler got to his feet and brushed off his jeans. I stood too quickly, and pain caught deep in my thigh. My hand went to it before I could stop myself.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Sat too long. Apparently I’m eighty.” I scooped up my bag, hoping he’d be distracted by the sight of Dash following us as far as the hallway entrance.
Of course he wasn’t. His eyes flicked to my left leg, but he let me change the subject. We said goodbye to Mrs. Casteel and headed out to his Jeep. By then, I’d been at Happy Paws more than five hours, and my thigh throbbed with every step.
A shiver crossed my shoulders when I settled into the passenger seat. I pulled my fleece sleeves over my hands.
Chandler glanced over as he started the engine. “Cold?”
“Your air conditioning is aggressive.”
“It’s on low.”
“Then it’s aggressively low.”
He turned it off without arguing. A few minutes later, I was too warm, but unzipping my fleece seemed like a lot of work. At the next red light, he glanced over again. I rested my forehead against the cool window before he could ask another question.
* * *
The house smelled of roast garlic and fresh laundry. Pops was in the kitchen singing off-key to an early-2000s playlist while he wrestled a chicken, butcher’s twine, and several lemons. His dirty-blond hair stuck up at the crown.
Dad sat at the island with his reading glasses on, folding warm towels from a laundry basket, his tablet propped open beside it. When I stopped in the kitchen doorway, he reached over and turned Pops’ music down a notch. Without missing a word of the chorus, Pops turned it back up.
“Sunshine!” Pops called. “How are my shelter babies? Did you save them all?”
“Most of them.” I was already edging back toward the hall. “I’m going to shower.”
“How’s the leg?”
“Better.”
Dad set down the towel he’d been folding. His eyes stayed on my face a beat too long, and I headed for the stairs before he could ask why I looked like I hadn’t slept.
“Dinner at six-thirty,” Pops called after me. “When your brother gets home.”
“Got it.”
Bernard followed me upstairs, his claws clicking against the wood. I let him into the bathroom with me, closed the door, and opened the bottom drawer beneath the sink. My fingers shook against the handle. Under the bandages and an old tube of ointment, I found the digital thermometer. I sat on the closed toilet lid and slipped it under my tongue. Bernard leaned against my shins, watching me as though I might produce a treat. The thermometer beeped.
100.1.
I stared at the number, then took it again. Same number. Not quite a fever by the usual cutoff, but still higher than I wanted it to be. Thursday, my leg had hurt. Today, I’d been shivering in Chandler’s Jeep with the air barely on. I hadn’t felt like that on Thursday.
I’d spent most of the day on my feet. I’d barely slept after Thursday’s match. Half the volleyball locker room had been coughing lately. Those were explanations for being tired. I wasn’t sure they explained the thermometer, too.
I could tell them. They were right there, probably arguing over whether the chicken needed more lemon. But if I mentioned the temperature, they’d connect it to my leg, and I knew exactly how long that conversation could get.
I switched off the thermometer and put it back beneath the bandages, exactly where I’d found it. Somewhere downstairs, Pops would still be singing.