I paid for my coffee and left.
When I came back the next morning, something was different. Taped to the counter was a plastic donation jar. On it, a kid’s crayon drawing of a German Shepherd. The sign read: “FOR K9 MAX. HE’S OUR TOWN’S DOG, TOO.”
I stared at it. Sarah just wiped the counter, not meeting my eye. “My son drew that. He loves it when you and Max drive by the school.”
Inside the jar was a wad of fives and tens.
I walked back to my cruiser and sat down. I tried to take a drink of my coffee, but my hands were shaking. I couldn’t hold it. I just put my head on the steering wheel and, for the first time since I joined the force, I wept.
I found out later she’d started a small online fundraiser. “Our local officer’s K9 partner, Max, saved his life. Now it’s our turn to save his.”
It exploded.
The link was shared by the high school soccer team. The construction crew I’d see every morning. The mechanics at the auto shop. People I’d given tickets to. People I’d only ever nodded at. The fund hit its goal in six hours. By the next day, it had doubled.
I went back to the coffee shop. The jar was overflowing.
“Sarah,” I started, but my voice failed.
