I didn’t get out of the hospital that Saturday. My blood counts were improving, but the team wanted to make sure I could drink enough and manage the pain without IV medication before they sent me home. By Monday, March twenty-third, they were satisfied, and Dad brought the car around while Pops and a nurse helped me transfer safely into the wheelchair.
On the way out, we passed Lylah’s old room, where the purple butterfly was still taped to the door. A little girl inside was arguing with someone about whether glitter counted as a color. I couldn’t see her, only the corner of a bright quilt and a pair of fuzzy socks sticking out beneath it.
I looked at the butterfly, remembering the first time Lylah had shown me the ridiculous collection of stickers she’d convinced the nurses to let her put on her door. She would’ve had an opinion about the glitter argument, probably several, and I could almost hear her announcing that glitter was a hostile act before stealing the craft supplies and making a bigger mess than anybody else. I smiled to myself as Pops pushed my chair toward the elevators.
At home, Bernard met us at the door with enough enthusiasm to qualify as a minor weather event. Stetson held his collar while Pops helped me inside, and Bernie spent the next hour following my wheelchair around as though he’d been assigned to supervise my recovery.
The next couple of weeks weren’t a montage of me getting stronger. There were labs and calls from the oncology team, days when I could eat soup and days when even the smell of it made me nauseated. My next treatment plan had to be adjusted around my recovery, and I spent more time resting than I wanted to admit. I stayed off my left leg, used the wheelchair when I needed to, and let Dad and Pops help with things I’d once done without thinking.
Chandler came by when he could, usually after practice. Sometimes we talked, and sometimes he sat on the rug beside Bernard while I slept. We didn’t pretend the breakup had never happened, and there were still moments when one of us slipped into an old habit. Once, when he offered to cancel a training session because I was having a bad afternoon, I told him to go. He argued that he was allowed to want to stay, and I agreed before pointing out that he was also allowed to keep the commitments he’d made. He went to practice, then called afterward to check on me.
Miss Davison sent videos from Happy Paws. In one, Dashiell took three steps toward Kendra before retreating behind Chandler’s legs. In another, he let Rhett clip on his lead without trembling. I watched each video more times than was probably reasonable, looking for the little changes that were easy to miss if you didn’t know him.
When the rescue confirmed Saturday, April eleventh, as the new evaluation date, Dr. Giacherio didn’t give me an automatic yes. He asked about my symptoms, reviewed the latest labs, and reminded me that a kennel full of animals and people wasn’t an ideal place for someone recovering from chemotherapy. We worked out a plan only after he was satisfied it was safe for me to go: a short visit, no crowd, wheelchair the entire time, careful hand hygiene, and no dog climbing into my lap. If I felt unwell or my counts changed, I’d stay home and Chandler would handle the evaluation with the staff.
I hated the last part, especially after spending so much time away from Happy Paws, but I agreed.
On Saturday, April eleventh, the morning of the rescheduled evaluation, the sky over Sierra Vista was the pale blue of a Colorado spring that hadn’t decided whether it trusted itself. Old snow lingered in the shadows beside Happy Paws, and the gravel in the play yard was damp from overnight rain.
Dad parked near the entrance while Pops helped me into my wheelchair and tucked a fleece blanket over my legs, careful to leave my left thigh supported. I wore my charcoal Happy Paws quarter-zip over a hoodie, Chandler’s gray beanie, and Lylah’s bracelets. My volunteer lanyard hung from the chair handle instead of my neck because I hadn’t been cleared to work, and I wasn’t about to pretend otherwise.
Miss Davison met us at the door. She’d arranged for the yard to be quiet and the evaluation to take place without a crowd. Kendra was inside with Dashiell, and Macy, the evaluator from the Boulder rescue, stood beside the gate with a clipboard. Uncle Jake waited near the fence, coffee in hand, while Stetson positioned himself behind my wheelchair and announced that he was prepared to accept compliments on his driving.
Chandler crouched beside me before we went in. “You don’t have to do every part,” he said. “Macy knows you’re here as one of his familiar people, not to prove you can run the whole thing.”
“I know.” I adjusted the blanket over my knees, checking that it wasn’t caught beneath the wheels.
“Do you?” he asked, giving me a look that suggested he knew exactly how much I hated sitting on the sidelines.
“I’m considering it.” I glanced at him, and he grinned before squeezing my hand.
Chandler stood and went to help Kendra bring Dashiell out. Dash emerged on a lead, low to the ground, his scruffy gray-brown coat sticking up around his ears. He paused when he saw the unfamiliar evaluator, and Kendra waited instead of tugging him forward. Chandler moved to his side, gave him a moment to sniff the air, and spoke softly enough that I couldn’t hear the words.
Dashiell noticed me while Chandler was adjusting the lead. His ears lifted, and his nose worked furiously as he took two quick steps in my direction. He stopped and looked back at Chandler, as if he needed confirmation that he was allowed to come over.
“Hey, buddy,” I called, keeping my voice gentle. It was still softer than it used to be, but it carried across the quiet yard.
Dashiell approached the wheelchair with Chandler holding the lead loosely. He stopped just short of the footrest and leaned forward to sniff my outstretched hand. I kept it low and let him choose, waiting until his nose pressed against my fingers before moving them slightly.
“Hi, Dash,” I whispered. “I missed you too.”
His tail gave one uncertain wag, then another. He stayed close to Chandler’s leg, watching Macy from the corner of his eye, but he didn’t retreat when she shifted her weight near the gate.
Macy let us have another minute before she began. She’d read the training notes and wanted to see how Dashiell responded to ordinary handling, unfamiliar people, and a few simple cues. If he became overwhelmed, they’d stop and make a plan from there rather than pushing him through something he wasn’t ready for. I liked her immediately, especially when she explained that she wasn’t expecting Dashiell to behave like a dog who’d never had a reason to be afraid. She wanted to see what he’d learned and how he recovered when something made him nervous.
Chandler handled the loose-leash walk while Stetson pushed me along the firmer edge of the yard. Dashiell started too fast, slowed when Chandler stopped, and checked back toward me every few steps. When Macy approached at a normal pace, he tucked closer to Chandler, then accepted a treat tossed onto the ground near his paws. He wasn’t ready to take food from her hand, and nobody insisted.
During the handling portion, Kendra showed Macy the gentle routine they’d practiced. Chandler kept the lead relaxed while Macy asked to touch Dashiell’s shoulder and briefly examine one ear. Dash stiffened, but he stayed. When she reached toward his front paw, he pulled away, and Macy stopped immediately.
“That’s useful information,” she said, making a note on her clipboard. “We don’t need to push that today.”
Chandler praised Dash for settling again. The first time he’d tried walking Maverick, he’d been dragged halfway across the play yard while I laughed too hard to help him. Now he knew when to talk, when to wait, and when to leave a frightened dog alone. I caught his eye when he looked toward me and gave him a small smile.
For the recall, Chandler walked Dashiell a short distance away while I stayed beside the gate. Macy wanted to see whether he could move toward a familiar voice without getting distracted, so Chandler waited until Dash was calm before giving me a nod.
“Dashiell. Come.” I held my hand low beside the wheelchair, watching him turn toward me.
For one awful second, he didn’t move. Then his ears came up, and he trotted across the damp gravel until he reached my chair. He stopped close enough to touch my fingers with his nose, and Chandler rewarded him while I praised him, careful to keep him off my lap.
“Good boy,” I whispered, scratching gently behind his ear. “That’s my good boy.”
Behind me, Pops made a suspicious sniffing noise. Stetson muttered something about allergies, which was rich coming from a boy who’d been blinking hard for the last five minutes. I glanced over my shoulder, and he gave me a look that clearly warned me not to say anything.
Macy finished her notes while Chandler gave Dash a break near the fence. I couldn’t read her expression. She wasn’t smiling broadly or shaking her head, which left me with absolutely nothing useful to work with.
Finally, she turned to Miss Davison. “He’s made meaningful progress. His recovery is better, and he’s responding to more than one handler. There are still things to work on, especially unfamiliar handling, but I don’t see a reason he can’t move forward with a carefully matched foster or adoption plan.”
My chest tightened, and I looked from Macy to Miss Davison. “So he passed?” I asked, almost afraid of the answer.
“He met the goals we agreed on for this evaluation,” Macy said. “That doesn’t mean he’ll never be scared again. It means the training is working and we know what support he needs.”
Miss Davison exhaled, and Kendra covered her mouth with one hand. Uncle Jake raised his coffee in a silent toast, while Chandler stayed crouched beside Dashiell, scratching gently behind his ear. He looked up when he realized everyone was watching him, and his smile spread slowly across his face.
“What happens next?” he asked, standing and brushing the gravel from his jeans.
“Home assessment, paperwork, and a transition plan,” Miss Davison said. “Macy’s team can help us place him with someone who understands his history.” She glanced between Chandler and Uncle Jake. “If anyone’s interested.”
Chandler looked at his dad, who took a long sip of coffee before answering. “There’s been a bag of dog food in our garage since January,” Uncle Jake said. “I was beginning to think you’d bought it for me.”
“Dad.” Chandler shook his head, but he was smiling.
“What? I’m just saying the garage is getting crowded.” Uncle Jake shrugged and looked toward Dashiell, who had settled beside Kendra.
Chandler turned back to Miss Davison. “I want to apply. If you think he’d do okay with us.”
“We’ll make sure it’s the right fit,” she said. “But I think it’s worth talking about.”
There would be questions about routines and space, a meeting at Uncle Jake’s house, and a slow transition if the rescue approved it. Chandler nodded through all of that with the serious expression he wore before a penalty kick, asking questions about how to make the first few days easier for Dash.
When he came back to my chair, I held out my hand. He took it, still looking a little stunned, and glanced toward his dad before turning back to me.
“You knew?” he asked, looking at me like I’d been keeping a secret.
“About the dog food? Absolutely. Your dad is the least subtle person alive.”
“About wanting him,” Chandler clarified, nodding toward Dashiell.
I looked past him to Dash, who’d settled beside Kendra and was watching us with his head tilted. “I figured it out somewhere around the hundredth Saturday you spent sitting on the floor with him.”
Chandler laughed softly. “That obvious?” He glanced toward his dad, who was pretending not to listen.
“To everyone except you.” I squeezed his hand, and he leaned closer, resting his forehead lightly against mine for a moment.
“I love you,” I told him, smiling when he pulled back enough to look at me.
“I love you too,” Chandler said, brushing his thumb across my knuckles.
Behind me, Stetson groaned. “Seriously? In front of me?” He made a face at Uncle Jake, who was already laughing.
“You can close your eyes,” I told him, looking over my shoulder.
“And push you into a fence? Tempting, but Dad would kill me.” He tightened his grip on the wheelchair handles, determined to make sure I knew he was still in charge of transportation.
Uncle Jake laughed loudly enough that Dashiell lifted his head. Chandler gave him a reassuring word, and Dash settled again beside Kendra, watching the people around him without trying to hide.
I looked at all of them, at the damp gravel and the spring light and the ridiculous people who kept showing up even when I made it difficult. My leg still hurt, treatment was still waiting, and Chandler and I had plenty left to figure out.
When Stetson asked whether I was ready to head inside, I nodded and let him turn the wheelchair toward the gate. Chandler walked beside me with his hand resting lightly on my shoulder, and I reached up to cover it with mine as we made our way across the yard.
That night, I dug the Dashiell notebook out of my desk drawer. The spiral was still crushed flat at one end, and Lylah’s note was still tucked between the training pages where I’d left it. I took the note out first and set it on my nightstand. Then I turned to the last entry, Chandler’s handwriting from Thursday, and wrote underneath it in mine.
Sat. April 11: Evaluation. Came to me from the gate on the first try. Two handlers.
I underlined two handlers twice, because Chandler would have.
When he stopped by after dinner, I held the notebook out to him. He didn’t take it right away. “That’s yours.”
“It’s Dash’s,” I said. “And he’s going to live with you. Somebody has to write down the day he decides your couch belongs to him.”
Chandler turned it over in his hands and ran his thumb along the crushed spiral, the way he always did when he was thinking. “You’re going to want updates.”
“Daily. With pictures.”
“Okay.” He tucked the notebook under his arm, then stopped in my doorway. “You know you’re still his first person, right?”
“I know.”
He grinned and left, and from the hallway I heard him inform Bernard that the dog food in his garage was officially spoken for.