“Easy,” I said softly, my pulse hammering in my throat.
Then, slowly, even stupidly, maybe, I reached for his collar. He could’ve ripped me apart. One bite. That was all it would’ve taken.
But he didn’t.
When my fingers wrapped around the thick leather, he didn’t even flinch. The dog just stood there, panting under my touch. I pulled gently, easing him toward the sidewalk.
The second dog hesitated, then followed.
The crowd parted as I stepped onto the curb, both mastiffs in tow. People watched in stunned silence.
An older woman near the curb placed a hand on my shoulder.
“Well done,” she said. “Thank you for saving them.”
The honking picked up again behind me. Traffic had resumed—except for my car, still parked in the middle of it all.
“Shit,” I muttered as a truck skidded to a stop next to me. Tires squealed. A man leaped out, tall and broad-shouldered.
“Oh my God! Thank you,” he said.
Tears filled his eyes as he dropped to his knees and threw his arms around the dogs’ massive shoulders. They licked his face like they’d found their way home.
“I stopped to get a pack of cigarettes at the gas station down the street,” the man said breathlessly. “And forgot the window was all the way down.”
He sounded like he was begging for forgiveness—from the dogs, from the crowd, from the universe, and from me. The relief on his face looked like resurrection. It was like he’d already pictured them dead, and now here they were. Alive. Safe.
“No worries,” I called over my shoulder as I jogged back across the road, dodging a few impatient honks to reach my car.
The moment I gripped the steering wheel, I realized my hands were shaking.
God. That was wild.
Chapter 3
The sun was already high when I found myself behind the stand, handing out race packets at the Mental Health Awareness 5K in Boston Common. The event buzzed with movement. Runners stretched. Volunteers checked clipboards and handed out water. Speakers adjusted their mics. Bright flowers lined the paths, their purple and yellow hues contrasting with the fresh green of spring.
The event was a joint effort between several mental health clinics, the city, and a few large donors. Their names were stamped across everything from the T-shirts to the care packages to the plastic water bottles.
A few minutes before the start of the race, a family rushed up to my table.
“Schumer,” the dad said, breathless, guiding his two teenage daughters to the stand.
I handed them waivers to sign and gave quick instructions.
One of the girls, her curls bouncing around her shoulders, asked, “Is there a bathroom?”
“London, are you for real?” The dad groaned. “I asked you guys at the house, and you said no.”
“Porta Potties,” I said, pointing toward the long line of bright blue plastic units.
“Eww.” She wrinkled her nose.
“I know,” I agreed.
“All right, go,” her dad said, motioning toward the start line. “We’ll wait there.”
The girl took off running as the rest of her family thanked me and moved along.
