Then my phone rings.
Unknown number.
My stomach knows before my brain does.
“Hello?” I answer.
“Hi, Sarah. This is Mark from the property management office.”
His voice is polite, practiced, the kind of calm that has a script behind it.
“I’m calling about a situation that was brought to our attention.”
“The dog?” I ask.
“The dog,” he confirms.
“I saw the news segment this morning. I’m glad your daughter is alright. That must have been terrifying.”
“It was,” I say carefully. “Duke saved her life.”
“I understand,” he replies.
“But we have to talk about the pet policy in your building.”
He explains it like he’s reading off a checklist.
There’s a weight limit in our lease.
There are certain breeds the insurance company considers “high risk.”
He never says any breed names out loud, but I can almost hear the words hanging in the air, the same ones my neighbors whispered in the hallway.
“That list doesn’t know my dog,” I say.
“Sir, he took a bite for a six-year-old. He’s not the problem.”
