“They already talk about me,” she murmured. “I don’t want to give them new material.”
Outside, the parking lot wind slapped us in the face.
Sarah tucked her chin into her thin jacket, shoulders raised like armor.
Barnaby walked tight against her leg, matching her pace exactly.
We drove to a small diner off the main road—nothing fancy, nothing trendy, just warmth and booths and the smell of coffee.
I chose it for one reason:
Nobody there would care.
Nobody would look at her scrubs and her tired eyes and decide she was a lesson.
But the moment we walked in, I felt eyes flicker.
Not because of her.
Because of Barnaby.
Because people love dogs the way they should love people—instantly, without paperwork.
“Can we sit somewhere quiet?” Sarah asked gently.
We found a corner booth.
Barnaby lay down under the table, his body pressed against Sarah’s boots.
She wrapped her hands around a mug like it was a lifeline.
And finally—finally—her breathing slowed.
That’s when her phone buzzed.
She flinched so hard she almost spilled the coffee.
Leave a Comment