“The paperwork is wrong,” Cora interrupted, her voice cutting through his explanation like a knife through dry paper. She stood up, using the wall for leverage but keeping her left hand firmly anchored on Diesel’s shoulder. The dog rose with her, matching her pace perfectly, his hip pressing against her good leg as if providing a living stabilizer for her uneven stride.
She reached into her pocket, retrieved her folded white cane, and held it out toward the fence. “Open the gate, Sarah. We’re leaving.”
Sarah hesitated, the keys rattling against the lock. “He hasn’t walked on a standard lead in four months, Cora. The last trainer who tried ended up in the urgent care clinic with twelve stitches in his forearm. We can’t legally release him without a behavioral clearance from the board.”
“Then call the board,” Cora said, taking her first step forward. Diesel moved with her, his shoulder fluid and steady against her knee. “Tell them the liability just found an operator.”
The process of getting Diesel out of the facility took another two hours of bureaucratic wrangling, signatures, and warnings that Cora signed without listening. By the time they reached the gravel parking lot, the afternoon heat had begun to bake the tarmac. Greg walked five paces ahead, his boots crunching loudly on the stones, his posture rigid with disapproval.
“This is a mistake, Cora,” Greg said as he opened the rear door of the VA transport van. He stayed well clear of the dog, his eyes fixed on the thick nylon lead Sarah had provided. “The apartment building has strict rules about working breeds. If he barks, if he makes one wrong move toward the mailman, they’ll evict you before the month is out. You can’t see what he’s looking at. You won’t know if he’s going to snap.”
Cora didn’t answer him. She reached down, found the handle of the door by touch, and patted the floor of the van. Diesel didn’t hesitate; he vaulted into the back seat with a clean, athletic grace that belied his stiff hind quarters, settling onto the floorboards with a deep grunt.
Cora climbed in beside him, pulling the door shut on Greg’s protests. As the van pulled out onto the highway, the steady hum of the tires against the blacktop filled the cabin. For the first time in three years, Cora didn’t feel the need to count the turns or measure the distance to the next intersection. She simply leaned back against the headrest, her hand buried deep in the thick, protective coat of the dog resting at her feet, both of them moving forward into the dark together.
