I trail my fingers along the wall, following the sound to the en-suite bathroom.
My fingers bump the counter, the edge of the sink, a toothbrush cup. Then plastic. Buzzing.
I snatch up the phone on the last ring and swipe.
“H…hello?”
“Hi! This is Tash from Safe Harbour Guide Dog Program.”
“Oh.” I sag with relief, a tiny laugh escaping. “Hi. Sorry, it’s early. I didn’t… uh… expect a call.”
“No worries at all,” she chirps. “We’re just checking in because we never heard back from you about scheduling your follow-up greeting appointment?”
I blink.
“My… what?”
“With the dogs?” she clarifies. “We were supposed to meet, but then you had an incident with a runaway horse. We haven’t heard from you again to reschedule.”
“I, um… thought I already had a dog,” I say slowly. “Jason? Big. Fluffy. Smells like outside and heaven. You sent him with Beau Bergen, really tall guy?”
There’s a pause.
“Sorry,” she says carefully. “What was the dog’s name?”
“Jason.”
Another pause. Longer.
“Ma’am, we don’t have a dog named Jason.”
My lungs forget how to work.
“And we don’t allow clients to name their dogs,” she adds, voice soft and professional, like she’s gently correcting a grieving aunt. “They keep their program names. We also don’t have anyone by the name of Beau Bergen working for us.”
The world tilts a few degrees.
“But he said he was with the program,” I whisper. “You guys did home visits. Cooking classes. ADA remodel consults. And the… builder guy? With the grip mats? And the stove interface? And the safety walk-through.”
“Ma’am,” she interrupts, still gentle, but now with a wary edge, “we don’t offer in-home cooking lessons. All of our training is conducted on-site or in controlled public locations. We also don’t send remodel experts. Our ADA suggestions are referral-based only.”
My fingers tighten around the phone until my knuckles ache.
“And we definitely don’t send trainers directly to clients’ houses without a supervisor present.”
Silence pours into my ear.
I can hear her breathing. I can hear my breathing. I can hear my heart pounding hard enough to rattle my ribs.
“I’m not sure who told you that,” she finishes, “but it wasn’t us.”
Ice slides down my spine in a thin, miserable trickle.
“I…” My tongue feels huge and useless. “I have to go.”
“Ma’am, wait—what about the dog?” Tash asks quickly. “Can we resche?—”
I hang up.
