Part 3
Daniel looked at the buckle in his hand. A little of Bishop’s fur had worked beneath the leather keeper, the same way it always did.
“What are we talking about?” he asked.
Rachel sat on the edge of the hearth instead of remaining above him.
“We can adjust his medicine. We can make him more comfortable. But I need you to understand that we may be looking at months.”
“May be.”
“I can’t put a date on it. He could have more time. He could deteriorate suddenly.”
Bishop shifted his head at the sound of Rachel’s voice, then settled again.
Daniel had learned to make decisions with gunfire nearby and men waiting on his answer. Now he couldn’t make himself set down a dog collar.
Rachel opened her bag and laid the medication bottles on the counter. She wrote the doses in large, clear numbers, then worked through the schedule with him until he repeated it back without looking.
“Keep him involved,” she said. “Let him choose a short walk or a seat on the porch. Don’t turn every hour into an examination.”
Daniel nodded.
“And don’t leave him out of the day because you’re afraid he’ll get tired.”
Across the room, Finn rose and approached the edge of Bishop’s rug. He stopped several feet short and lay down facing him.
Rachel watched without speaking.
A little later, Daniel brought Bishop’s bowl closer. The shepherd reached forward and ate. Finn immediately got up and went to his own breakfast.
Daniel remained on the floor until both dogs had finished.
At Telvara, Vivian Sloane was trying to make six months stretch farther than a calendar allowed.
She had run the animal refuge for nineteen years. The kennels had survived leaking roofs, lean winters, and donation drives that brought in more used towels than money. Now the land had been sold to a company planning a private mountain retreat, and the county notice gave the refuge six months to move.
Vivian kept the notice in her desk drawer. Her sixteen-year-old niece had already copied it.
Tessa posted an appeal online, carried letters to businesses, and painted signs after school. At the refuge, her brush stood in a jar beside a stack of adoption forms. Most people were kind. Few could offer land, money, or a way around an approved project.
Owen arrived intending to spend an hour.
Tessa met him at the west fence and placed a hammer in his hand.
“This section needs to stand up.”
He looked along the leaning boards. “You want somebody who builds things.”
“I want somebody who can reach that brace.”
“That’s a low hiring standard.”
“It’s a low budget.”
He examined the post, then asked where she kept the nails.
The ground was uneven. Twice, Owen had to stop and shift his stance before he could lift another board. Tessa held the wood without looking at his leg. When he needed a minute, she sorted hardware in a bucket.
By the time they finished, the fence was still crooked in places, but it no longer moved when he pushed it.
“Needs paint,” he said.
“I’ll save you a brush.”
“I didn’t say I’d paint it.”
Tessa carried the empty bucket toward the shed.
Owen was waiting at the gate the next morning, a thermos tucked beneath one arm and a box of screws in his hand.
Daniel began coming too. He replaced a latch, squared a gate, and carried sacks of feed into the storage room. Work at the refuge had edges he could measure and problems that yielded to tools.
At home, the medication bottles remained beside the coffee tin.
Rachel found him one afternoon working on a bolt at the back fence. She stood quietly until he tested it for the third time.
“That one’s tight.”
He put the wrench on it again. “I’m checking the frame.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Since this morning.”
“And Bishop?”
“I go home.”
Rachel rested her forearms on the fence. Beyond her, Tessa was explaining a plan for a community meeting while Owen pretended not to be taking orders.
“You’ve got a dog who needs his person,” Rachel said.
“He needs a heart that works.”
Her expression didn’t change. “You can’t repair that with this wrench.”
Daniel stopped moving.
A delivery truck rattled through the entrance. Dogs began barking in the nearest kennel, and someone called for help unloading.
Rachel stayed where she was.
Daniel took off his gloves and laid them beside the tool.
“Tell Vivian I’ll finish the gate tomorrow.”
At home, Finn was sitting near his full bowl. Bishop watched from the hearth.
Daniel warmed the shepherd’s food, brought it to him, and sat with his back against the wall. He didn’t coax or count the seconds between bites. When Bishop began eating, Finn went to the kitchen and did the same.
Daniel stayed until the room grew dim, then reached up and switched on the lamp.
Over the next several days, he learned to leave Telvara before sunset. He measured meals, recorded medicine, and held the back door open long enough for Bishop to cross the threshold without hurrying. He also checked the old latch twice after discovering that it sometimes caught against the strike plate without properly fastening.
Finn grew bolder in the spaces Bishop didn’t use. He carried the red ball from room to room, hid it under furniture, and seemed delighted every time it was found again.
One afternoon, Daniel was pressing Bishop’s medicine into a small piece of soft food when the ball emerged from under the sofa.
Finn lunged after it. He caught it, skidded, and spun near the hearth. His shoulder struck a light wooden chair.
The chair hit the floor with a sharp crack.
Bishop jerked awake and tried to stand. His front paws found purchase, but his back legs slid beneath him. His breathing turned rapid and harsh.
Daniel dropped the food and crossed the room.
“Stay down. Easy.”
He knelt, supporting Bishop’s neck while keeping a hand against his ribs. The shepherd’s eyes were wide, fixed on Daniel’s face.
Behind them, Finn stood beside the overturned chair. The ball rolled out of his mouth and disappeared under the table.
Daniel counted breaths. He loosened his grip when he realized how hard he was holding Bishop, then waited through several minutes that seemed to offer no change at all.
At last, the old dog’s head lowered. His breathing began to settle.
Daniel looked over his shoulder.
Finn’s ears were flattened. He hadn’t moved from the chair.
“Don’t do that again,” Daniel snapped.
The puppy flinched and backed into the doorway…
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