She stared at me.
“If they can convince themselves you’re a cautionary tale,” I said, “they don’t have to admit you’re a mirror.”
Her lips parted like she’d never heard anyone say it out loud.
I added, “And that scares them more than your tears.”
For a moment, she just sat there, breathing.
Then she whispered, “That’s the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard.”
I almost smiled. “Yeah.”
Then Barnaby let out a soft little huff like he was offended by the mood.
And for the first time since last night, Sarah’s mouth twitched into something that almost looked like a laugh.
On Monday morning, I drove her to the rental office.
She insisted on taking her own cash envelope, gripping it so hard her knuckles were white.
Barnaby came too.
Because if you’ve ever had a dog who senses your stress, you know this:
They don’t leave you at the door of the hard thing.
They go in with you.
The office was bright, sterile, and smelled like air freshener trying too hard.
A bulletin board in the corner had flyers for “community resources” that looked like they’d been printed a year ago and forgotten.
Sarah walked up to the counter like she was walking toward a judge.
A clerk looked up.
Her eyes flickered to Barnaby.
Then to Sarah’s scrubs.
Then—very briefly—to Sarah’s face, like she recognized her.
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