He left a light on for his anxious dog.
Every single night, he left a light on so that Hiro wouldn’t wake up scared.
That was the kind of man Peter Loupier was, and I didn’t know what to do with that information, so I was simply going to acknowledge it and move on.
I set Princess Consuela’s carrier down in the foster room, checked on the kittens (all five accounted for, the bathroom door holding), and peeked in on Shortcake, who lifted her head and wagged once before going back to sleep. Then I went to the kitchen for water.
There was a new Post-it on the fridge.
I almost missed it because it was tucked behind the whiteboard, not in our usual exchange spot butoff to the side, in a place where I’d only see it if I was standing at the right angle. I pulled it free and held it under the stove light.
It was Peter’s handwriting, small and precise as always, but the note was different from the ones that came before it. There were no instructions or corrections, no dry commentary on my behavior or my cat or my inability to properly operate a French press.
It read:
Hiro had a bad night. Phantom pain. He’s on the floor in my room. He does better with company, but I’ll be at the clinic early. If you hear him before I’m back, just sit with him. You don’t have to do anything. Just be there. He trusts you.
— P
I read it twice.
He trusts you.
Peter had written those three words about his dog, his anxious, guarded, three-legged dog who had been in his care for eight months and who flinched when the mail carrier came and hid behind Peter’s legs when strangers visited.
Peter had written that this dog, who trusted almost no one, trusted me.
And he’d written it on a Post-it note and tucked it where I’d find it at 3 a.m., because he knew I’d be standing in this kitchen at this hour, and he’d wanted me to know.
I put the note in my pocket.
Not in the nightstand drawer with the other ones.
In my pocket, where I’d feel it against my leg, a small square of paper that weighed nothing and meant something I wasn’t going to think about tonight.
I filled a glass of water, walked down the hall, and stopped outside Peter’s bedroom door. It was open a few inches, and I could hear Hiro’s breathing from inside, quick and shallow, the sound of a dog riding out a wave of pain in the dark.
I pushed the door open slowly.
Hiro was on the floor at the foot of Peter’s bed, his body tense, his missing leg twitching in a phantom gallop. Peter was asleep, one arm hanging off the side of the bed, his fingers about six inches from Hiro’s back, close enough that the dog would know he was there.
I sat down on the floor beside Hiro.
I didn’t touch him right away.
I just sat there, the way Peter sat with new fosters, present and still and unhurried, and let Hiro decide.
It took about thirty seconds.
Hiro shifted his weight, dragged himself the few inches between us, and pressed his side against my leg with a long, shuddering exhale.
I put my hand on his ribs. His heartbeat was fast under my palm, then gradually, over several minutes, it slowed. His breathing deepened. The tension went out of his muscles in stages, like a fist unclenching one finger at a time.
From the bed, barely audible, came a voice. “Hey.”
I looked up to find Peter awake, or half awake, his face mostly buried in the pillow, one eye visible and barely open. He looked like he’d surfaced just enough to register my presence and was deciding whether to stay above water or sink back down.
“Hey,” I said back quietly. “Got your note.”
