“You like dogs?” I asked, crouching down. Keep distance. Don’t threaten. Basic engagement protocol.
She nodded slowly. Her fingers buried themselves in the thick fur behind Titan’s left ear. She scratched a specific spot, a deep, rhythmic motion.
“I had a puppy in my dreams,” she said, her voice raspy, unused. “He had a star.”
The air left the street. The sounds of the city—the distant sirens, the drunk laughter from a bar down the block—faded into a buzzing static.
“A star?” I choked out.
“Yeah.” She parted Titan’s fur, revealing the skin behind his ear. “Like this.”
There, hidden beneath the black and tan coat, was a patch of white fur. The size of a dime. Shaped like a jagged, irregular star.
I fell back, my ass hitting the cold concrete.
Nobody knew about that mark.
Titan was a rescue. A street dog found in Syria by the coalition forces, brought back, and put through the K9 program. I got him two years ago. I knew about the mark because I groomed him. But nobody else knew. It wasn’t in his file. It wasn’t visible unless you went looking for it.
