“Maybe.” I knelt beside Jolly, running my hand over his head. The gray was spreading faster now—I could see it every time I groomed him, feel the texture of his coat changing, softening.
Jolly wasn’t just my dog. He was the other half of me. The piece that made sense of the world. Seven years—through Afghanistan, through private security contracts in a dozen countries, through midnight extractions and long stakeouts and several IEDs that should have killed us both.
When he couldn’t work anymore?—
I didn’t finish the thought. I’d learned to stop before the spiral caught me.
“Come on, boy.” I stood, and Jolly rose with me, tail wagging. “Let’s go home.”
Chapter 2
Kayla Cafferty
The golden retriever’s eyes weren’t right.
I’d been staring at the illustration for twenty minutes, pencil hovering, trying to figure out what was off. The composition was fine. The lighting worked. The dog sat exactly where he should in the frame—red bandana around his neck, tail mid-wag, positioned between two boys on a playground bench. But something in his expression read flat instead of soulful, and I couldn’t pinpoint why.
The book was calledBrave Like Barley. A dog helps a lonely boy find the courage to make friends. Simple premise, the kind that worked because it was true. My editor had sent the manuscript three weeks ago with a note that read,This one made me cry—you’re going to love it.
She’d been right. I did love it. I also found it harder to work on than anything I’d done in years.
Maybe because the boy in the story reminded me too much of William. The way he hung back at recess, watchingother kids play, wanting to join but not knowing how. The way he talked to his dog about things he couldn’t say to people.
I set down my pencil and rubbed my eyes. The deadline wasn’t breathing down my neck yet—I had three weeks before the rough sketches were due, another month after that for finals. Plenty of time. But I’d learned the hard way that “plenty of time” could evaporate fast when you were a single mom with a first grader and a house that required quite a bit of attention.
The light in my home office was good this time of day. Late-afternoon sun slanting through the west-facing window, glowing but not harsh. I’d chosen this room specifically for the light when we’d moved in six months ago. The real estate agent had called it a “bonus room,” which in Colorado apparently meant “too small to be a bedroom but too big to ignore.” Perfect for a drafting table, a bookshelf, and the organized chaos of my work.
I picked up the pencil again. Studied Barley’s eyes.
The problem, I realized, was that I’d drawn him looking at the boys. But dogs didn’t just look at people. Theysawthem. There was warmth there and patience and that particular brand of unconditional acceptance that humans spent their whole lives trying and failing to replicate.
I started erasing, working carefully around the lines I wanted to keep. The curve of the ear. The slight tilt of the head. Just the eyes needed to change—a softening of the lids, a shift in the direction of the gaze so he was focused entirely on the lonely boy, like nothing else in the world existed.
My phone rang.
I glanced at the screen. Trish Johnson. I set down the pencil and answered.
“Hey, you.”
“Hey yourself.” Trish’s voice carried that particularenthusiasm she seemed to generate effortlessly. “I know you’re probably in the middle of something brilliant, but I had to call. Gary and I still can’t stop talking about Saturday night.”
“The sleepover was my pleasure. Really.”
“Pleasure, she says. Like wrangling two six-year-olds hopped up on pizza and video games is some kind of spa treatment.”
I laughed. “They were great. Theo’s a good kid. And William needs friends.”
“Well, Theo hasn’t stopped talking about when he gets to go back to William’s house. Apparently, you have better snacks than we do.”
“I made popcorn. It’s not exactly gourmet.”
“You maderealpopcorn. On the stove. Do you know how long it’s been since Theo had anything that didn’t come out of a microwave bag?” She laughed. “Anyway, I wanted to say thank you again. We haven’t had a real date night in months. Gary took me to that Italian place on Main Street, the one with the candles and the cloth napkins. I had two glasses of wine and didn’t have to cut anyone’s food into tiny pieces. It was magical.”
“I’m glad.” And I meant it. Trish and Gary had been good to me since I’d moved here—inviting me to school events, introducing me to other parents, making sure I didn’t spend every weekend alone with William in a town where I didn’t know anyone. The least I could do was give them a few hours to themselves.
“And.” Trish’s tone shifted, became deliberately casual. “I want to return the favor. Anytime you need a night to yourself, William can come here. The boys entertain each other, and Gary actually enjoys the chaos, which I will never understand.”
I knew what she was really asking. Whether I was seeing anyone. Whether I wanted to be.
