Page 4

Tears, never far from the surface, stung Abby’s eyes and her breath picked up speed.
“Yeah.”
Too slow to offer the refuge Abby would need in a moment, she abandoned the elevator and wobbled toward the heavy steel door to the stairs. As she passed, she ran fingers over the plastic sign, the rough right angles of the pictograph and the raised bumps of the braille beneath catching at her skin. Her hands were slick and clammy, and she lurched forward, Gen beside her, into the relative safety of the vaulting concrete stairwell. Collapsing to her knees, she wrapped both arms around the dog, fingers clutching at long tufts of fur. She buried her nose in Gen’s ruff, and the familiar scent of the dog’s shampoo filled her nose. Gen’s steady panting in her ear, faster than her own breath, but soothing nonetheless, anchored Abby. One breath in for Gen’s every four. And out again.
Breathing in time with Gen, Abby let the emotions wash over her. Grief, fear, anger... It had been six months before she could step into the hospital, a year before she could visit the pediatric floor. This had beenhisplace. Only with the bulwark of Gen’s presence had she ever found the courage to come back, but the need to fulfill his dream, to help heal children, won out stronger than her pain. At least one of them was still doing what needed to be done.
Abby dragged her sleeve across her eyes.
Gen shook, her fur settling back along her body where Abby’s clutching fingers had rooted in it. Catching a lock of Abby’s hair in her mouth, Gen tugged, then dropped it.
Abby ruffled the dog’s ears and whispered, “Naughty girl,” before standing again.
The familiar scrabble and click of Gen’s toenails on the steep, concrete stairs grounded Abby as they descended, the cool wash of air-conditioned breeze drying the sticky sweat slicking her skin.
Ducking into the small café near the front entrance, Abby prepared some tea, wrapping her fingers around the heavy paper cup and letting the heat seep into her chilled and aching joints as she sank into a hard plastic chair.
“Are you okay, hon?”
Abby ripped her gaze from its blank focus on the curling steam to find a stranger at the next table watching her.
“Sure. I’m fine.” The rote words were flat, a litany she’d repeated too many times to stumble over, even now, on the heels of nearly losing herself in the stairwell.
She was just... broken. And if three years hadn’t been enough time to put her back together, maybe a lifetime wouldn’t be enough, either.
Three
“WAIT.” ABBY PAUSED, almost imperceptibly, before pushing through the door of Common Grounds, her favorite coffee shop.
After years of steady training, basic commands had transmuted into deeply ingrained habits. Pausing at doors, sitting at counters, staying in heel position. Often, Abby didn’t need to use words – Gen took her cues from her body language – but it didn’t hurt to keep the dog’s obedience fresh.
She ordered her morning coffee and slid into a deep, leather seat, flipping over the paper on the small table beside her and checking the date.
“Can you believe they’re still blathering on about that stupid playoff game?” Jackie, the owner of Common Grounds, gestured at the paper. “It’s beenmonths!”
Abby snorted. “True, but it’s better than baseball stats. I swear, their season never ends.”
Jackie rolled her eyes. “No argument here. Did you see Zack Hooper, is now accusing the quarterback of throwing the game? What a hack.”
“Edwards? You’re kidding. Why would he do that?”
Jackie shrugged a shoulder. “Something about how San Diego gave him his first shot, so he owed them.”
“That’s stupid,” Abby replied. “Isn’t he originally from somewhere down near Hilton Head? He played for USC, and he took a lower offer to play here so he could come home.”
“If you can follow his reasoning, you’re a more devoted football fan than I.” Jackie shrugged. “Well, you are anyway, but you know what I mean.”
Abby opened to the article and skimmed it. “Hack is right. This is like clickbait in print. Can they even publish this stuff?”
“Maybe in the Opinion section.” Jackie cleared a couple of plates from a table, then nodded at Gen, who’d managed to wedge herself underneath the chair. “She doing okay?”
“She’s great. We were at the hospital three times this week and she worked her magic, like always.”
“Good, good. You come in with her anytime, yeah? You need a refill before you go?”
“No, thanks.”
“Okay, have a good run. C’mon by afterwards and the next batch of scones should be out. Gen can taste test one.”