“How long since you checked your tires?” she asked.
“Last week.” He spun the first lug nut off, dropped it in the snow. “No problems then.”
She didn’t say anything, just watched him work. The truck rose higher, the flat tire lifting off the ground. He pulled it free and rolled it aside. The spare went on easily, and he threaded the lug nuts back on, tightening them down.
“Bad luck,” Johanna said, standing and brushing snow off her jeans.
“Yeah.” He lowered the jack, cranked it until the truck settled back onto all four wheels. He gave the lug nuts a final turn with the tire iron, then hoisted the flat into the truck bed. “Happens.”
But something nagged at him as he loaded the jack back into place. The tire had been fine yesterday. Fine when he’d driven into town for supplies yesterday morning before Johanna arrived, fine when he’d come back. And now, overnight, completely flat.
He looked at the house, at the bunkhouse beyond it, at the empty expanse of snow-covered land. No tracks except theirs. No sign anyone had been near the truck.
Just bad luck, like Johanna said.
He slammed the tailgate shut and wiped his hands on his jeans. “Alright, let’s go get us a dog. We’re losing daylight.”
The shelter smelled of bleach and wet fur. A young woman with purple hair greeted them from behind a cluttered desk, her face brightening when Johanna explained why they’d come.
“We have several dogs who might be a good fit,” she said, leading them toward the kennels. “Are you looking for any specific breed or size?”
“Something calm,” Walker said, following her. “Older, maybe.”
“I have a few candidates in mind.” She led them down a narrow hallway where the sound of barking intensified. “This is our adult dog section. Most people want puppies, especially around Christmas, but the older ones make wonderful companions.”
As they walked past the kennels, dogs of all sizes pressed against the chain-link doors. Some barked excitedly, tails wagging, while others watched with wary eyes from the backs of their enclosures.
“We’re looking for a dog that won’t be easily startled,” Johanna said. “Something steady.”
“For a veteran?” the woman asked, glancing back at them.
Walker nodded. “He’s struggling and we think a companion might help.”
“I’ve got just the dog.” The woman’s face lit up. “Nobody wants him because he’s older and not exactly pretty, but he’s the sweetest soul.”
She led them to the last kennel on the right. Inside, a large German Shepherd mix lay on a worn blanket, watching them with intelligent eyes. His coat was a patchwork of brown, black, and white, with one ear that stood straight up and another that flopped over. A scar ran across his muzzle, and his tail—missing the last few inches—thumped slowly against the concrete floor.
“This is Bishop,” the attendant said. “He’s been hereabout eight months. Six years old, very gentle. His owner died, and there was no one to take him.”
Johanna crouched down to the dog’s level. Bishop rose slowly, tail wagging in a dignified sweep, and approached the gate. He didn’t bark or jump, just pressed his nose against the chain link, sniffing Johanna’s extended fingers.
The attendant was right. The dog was not beautiful, but there was something dignified about him. Something calm and steady in those brown eyes that reminded Walker of the old military working dogs he’d seen in Afghanistan. Those dogs had been all business, reliable in a way most people weren’t.
“Can we see him outside the kennel?” Walker asked.
“Of course.” The attendant unlocked the gate, clipped a leash to Bishop’s collar, and led him out.
The dog didn’t pull or jump, just walked beside her with a measured pace that spoke of good training. When they reached a small fenced yard behind the building, she unclipped his leash.
“I’ll give you some time to get acquainted,” she said, and disappeared back inside.
Bishop stood in the middle of the yard, looking between Walker and Johanna as if trying to figure out what they wanted from him. Snow dusted the ground, and the dog’s paws left perfect prints as he took a tentative step toward them.
“Hey, boy.” Walker crouched down, extending his hand palm up.
The dog approached cautiously, sniffed his fingers, then pressed his head against his palm. Bishop’s fur was coarse but warm, and when he scratched behind the one floppy ear, the dog’s eyes half-closed in contentment.
“What do you think?” Johanna asked, kneeling beside them. Snow clung to her jeans, but she didn’t seem to notice.
