Micah glanced at Good Boy again. The dog still hadn’t moved or acknowledged the man at all.
“He answers to Roscoe?” Micah asked.
“Sometimes.” Arthur shrugged. “He’s stubborn. Always has been.”
Naomi crouched down, her hand still resting on the dog’s head. “Is that your name, boy? Roscoe?”
The dog’s ears flicked, but he didn’t turn toward the man. He looked at Naomi instead.
The man took a step closer. “I really appreciate you taking care of him. I was worried sick when I couldn’t find him. Let me give you something for your trouble.”
He pulled out his wallet and flipped it open, pulling out a few bills. “Fifty bucks? For food and whatever else?”
“No.” Naomi stood, shaking her head. “That’s not necessary.”
“Come on, I insist. You went out of your way?—”
“No,” Naomi said again, more firmly this time. “We were happy to help.”
Arthur hesitated, then tucked the bills back into his wallet. “Well, thank you. Really.”
He reached toward Good Boy—Roscoe—and snapped his fingers. “Come on, boy. Time to go home.”
The dog didn’t move.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
The man’s smile thinned. “Roscoe, come.”
Still nothing.
“He’s been through a lot,” Naomi said. “Just be patient with him, okay?”
The man’s expression softened. “Of course. I’ll get him all fixed up. Take him to the vet, make sure he’s healthy. He’ll be back to normal in no time.”
She crouched down one more time, her face level with the dog’s. “You be good, okay?” Her voice cracked. “You’re a good dog. I’m glad we got to hang out.”
The dog’s tail wagged once, slow and hesitant.
Then Naomi stood.
The man clipped a leash onto the dog’s collar and tugged gently. “Come on, Roscoe. Let’s go home.”
The dog resisted, looking back at Naomi. Then he followed, his head low and his tail tucked.
Naomi stood frozen, watching as the man led the dog to the truck, opened the door, and let him jump in.
A tear slipped down her cheek. She wiped it away quickly, but Micah saw it.
The man climbed into the driver’s seat, gave them a wave through the window, and started the engine.
Then the truck pulled away.
Micah looked at Naomi, still standing there with tears on her face, and wished—more than anything—that he could tell her it was going to be okay.
But he wasn’t sure it would be.
Naomi settled into the rocking chair near the window of the living room, Grace cradled in her arms, the bottle angled carefully against the baby’s lips.
