The authorization paperwork had been completed at the department that morning. The duty sergeant had handled the administrative process with quiet efficiency and had said nothing unnecessary. Alex had signed his own section without reading it because reading it would have required him to process the words as words, and he was not ready for that.
Dmitri and Oleg approached the table one at a time. Dmitri placed his hand briefly on Rex’s flank, applying a gentle pressure that was not quite a stroke. “Best partner I ever worked next to,” he said, and his voice was even. Oleg leaned down close to the dog’s ear and said something too quiet for anyone else to hear, then stepped back.
Alex leaned close to Rex’s head, close enough that the dog’s ear was against his cheek.
“I’m here, buddy. You don’t have to fight anymore. I’ve got you.”
And then Rex moved.
The movement came from some reserve that no one in the room had anticipated, given the condition he was in. With significant visible effort, Rex raised both front paws from the table and placed them around Alex’s shoulders. Not a reflexive twitch, not an involuntary response to stimulus, but a deliberate act of contact. He pressed himself toward his handler with everything he had remaining, the weight of his chest leaning into Alex’s, his paws gripping the back of the officer’s jacket with gentle but unmistakable intention.
The room became completely still.
In eight years, Rex had never done that.
Alex’s throat closed. He could feel the dog’s heartbeat through the fabric of his uniform, irregular and effortful, working against odds it had no business working against. His eyes filled and he did not try to prevent it.
“It’s okay,” he managed, barely above a whisper. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
