“I can’t sleep,” he said. “Where is the dog?”
I didn’t know yet.
We met. He apologized—not for optics, but for blindness. He admitted he chose comfort over compassion. He wanted to fix it.
Two days later, we learned the truth.
Skeeter wasn’t going home with the Corporal. He was being sent for evaluation. If deemed unsafe, he could be euthanized.
We went to the facility.
It smelled like disinfectant and fear.
Caleb’s father arrived, grief hardened into anger. He didn’t want the dog there. The reminder hurt too much.
Skeeter panicked at a loud noise. Not aggressive—terrified. Memories flooding back.
I knelt. Spoke softly.
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