Part 3
The next morning, Erin found Eli at the kitchen table copying the shelter number onto the inside cover of his book. She told him what Officer Alvarez had said, and he stared at the digits he had written.
“Then who had him?”
“They’re trying to find out.”
He wanted to call before the shelter opened. Erin made him wait until nine, then stood beside him while he asked whether RC-417 had eaten. A kennel technician told Eli the dog had eaten a little and kept it down. If Dr. Shah approved, they could visit that afternoon.
The shepherd lay on layered blankets in a visiting room with a glass door. The yellow raincoat had been washed and folded beneath his chin. Up close, the gray around his muzzle made him look older. One ear had a neat split near the tip.
Dr. Maya Shah met them before they went in. She was small, brisk, and unwilling to offer comfort she could not support with facts.
“He weighs sixty-one pounds,” she said. “For his frame, I’d like him closer to seventy-five, but weight has to come back slowly. His hips show significant arthritis and muscle loss. We can ease the pain and help him regain some strength. The arthritis will still be there.”
Erin asked what long-term care might cost.
Dr. Shah named examinations, prescription anti-inflammatory medication, blood monitoring, dental work, and the possibility of ramps or rehabilitation exercises. The total was not impossible. It was also not small. Eli looked through the glass while they spoke.
“Can I read in there?”
The veterinarian watched the dog for a moment. “Sit in the chair. Don’t get on the floor, don’t reach for him, and let him decide whether to come closer.”
Eli opened his book. The shepherd’s eyes moved toward him before the first sentence was finished.
On the third page, Eli paused to turn a word over silently. The dog shifted off the yellow coat, walked two stiff steps, and lowered himself beside the chair. When Eli resumed, the shepherd placed his chin on the toe of Eli’s sneaker.
Dr. Shah leaned against the wall. “That’s not proof of anything,” she said, mostly to Erin. “But he’s comfortable with the routine.”
“What routine?”
“A child reading. Sitting still. Page turns. He may have encountered it before.”
When Eli reached the end of the chapter, Dr. Shah said, “All done.” The dog lifted his head, looked toward the door, then settled flat on the blanket.
“He may know that phrase too,” she said. “For now, that’s all we know.”
Officer Alvarez arrived carrying a printed still from Owen Price’s video. Owen had sent the original file and removed the short clip he had posted.
“Was it already online?” Erin asked.
“For eleven minutes. Long enough for people to share a screen recording, not long enough for it to travel far.”
The video showed the dog emerging from the alley beside Market Street. More useful was the blue tether trailing from the rusted clip at his collar. The humane officer was checking addresses connected to Marian Holt’s estate and relatives.
“Owen says he’s sorry,” Alvarez added.
Eli kept his eyes on the book. “Did he say it to you or to the dog?”
“To me.”
“Then the dog doesn’t know.”
On Wednesday, the third business day of the hold, the shelter posted a carefully cropped photograph asking for information. It did not show the dog’s sores. By noon, a retired librarian named Louise Grant had called three times.
She arrived during their visit in a green wool coat, carrying a flat archive box against her chest. Her white hair had collapsed on one side from the rain. The moment she saw the shepherd through the glass, she covered her mouth.
The dog was asleep, but when the latch clicked, his eyes opened. Louise did not call to him. She stood very still and began reciting the opening lines of a children’s book in a low, practiced voice.
His head rose.
“Hello, old friend,” she said.
The shepherd struggled to his feet. His tail moved once—not a wag exactly, but a careful sweep against the blanket.
Louise set the archive box on the table. Inside were photographs protected by clear sleeves. The first showed the children’s room at Bellwether Library eight years earlier. Paper stars hung from the ceiling. On a blue rug, a much younger German shepherd wore a green vest while a girl read into his fur.
The split in his right ear was already there. So was the pale crescent over his left eye.
Across the bottom of the photograph, someone had written PAWS TO READ—GUS AND MARIAN, SPRING SESSION.
Louise touched the glass. “His name is Gus,” she said. “For nine years, children who were afraid to read in class came here and read to him…”
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