Second Session

The fluorescent lights down the main hallway of Happy Paws hurt my eyes.

It was the first thing that hit me when I pushed through the front glass at nine, which made no sense, because they were the exact same bulbs that had buzzed over the scuffed linoleum for two years. The same corkboard of adoption flyers by the front desk, the same faded Polaroid of Maverick’s crooked ear pinned in the center. Nothing had changed except the pressure behind my eyes.

Bad sleep, I told myself. I’d been awake at 1:15, and again at three, and at four-forty, when Bernard had let out a sigh so heavy he startled himself awake on the rug.

And I’d woken up to a wall of texts from Pops:

Pops: leaving yet sunshine??

Pops: it’s 10:50

Pops: sunshine

Pops: it’s 11:06 and your brother says you left an hour ago??

Pops: chandler says you’re home and asleep. good. 💛

Pops: next time TEXT ME. i mean it. love you

I’d read them lying flat in bed with my raw, stinging palms held up off the comforter. Chandler had texted him. I hadn’t known he would do that.

He’d kept the secret. He’d just made sure somebody knew I was safely inside the house.

Happy Paws was supposed to be the one place where I stayed intact. I’d walked in here the week after everything with Tahni fell apart freshman year and scrubbed kennel drains for four hours straight until my head cleared. I’d rehabilitated a cattle dog mix who had bitten three adult volunteers before me. Happy Paws was the place where everything about me made sense.

My left leg argued with every single step.

“Morning, Deshazo,” Mrs. Casteel said without looking up from her Saturday crossword. Then she paused, her pencil hovering, and peered over the top of her reading glasses. Her gaze traveled from my washed-out face down to my wrists, where the heels of both palms were raw and scabbed from the gravel lot, two rough reddish-brown patches I’d tried to shove up inside the cuffs of my gray fleece. “What happened to your hands?”

“Bernard caught a scent.”

“That Samoyed has never pulled you off your feet in his entire life.”

“There’s a first time for everything.”

She studied me over her tortoiseshell frames for three slow seconds, the look she’d probably given thirty years of middle schoolers who claimed their homework blew out the bus window. I signed the binder at 9:01 and kept walking before she could ask anything else.

Chandler was already in the training room.

I paused in the open doorway. He sat cross-legged on the thick blue rubber mats with his back against the full-length mirror, the sleeves of his dark hoodie pushed up his forearms, the left cuff shoved an inch higher than the right, the way they always ended up no matter how many times he pulled them straight. Across the corridor, Dashiell’s kennel gate stood unlatched, and Dashiell was lying right on the threshold of the training room with his chin resting flat across his paws, watching Chandler from six feet away.

“You work Saturdays,” I said.

“I took care of it.”

“You said that last weekend. It’s still not an actual plan.”

“It works.” He didn’t look up from the floor. “It gets the job done.”

I wanted to ask how. I wanted to ask what took care of it meant, whether he’d traded shifts with someone who hated him, or whether his manager had cut his hours. I stayed quiet, because asking meant admitting I cared about what this was costing him, and I’d spent the entire silent drive home from the bonfire convincing myself I was done caring about that.

He hadn’t mentioned the parking lot once. Not when he found me leaning against the passenger side of his Jeep with blood on my thumb, and not during the drive through town. He’d just unlocked the door, turned the vents away from my face, and driven.

I lowered myself onto the mats across from him, moving slowly, keeping my left leg straight out on the rubber. A clammy, cold sweat prickled at the back of my neck under my ponytail, which made no sense, because the training room was always kept warm.

“Right,” I said, clearing the scratch from my throat. “Approach work first.”

We spent the next two hours running drills.

Dashiell was sharper than he’d ever been. It was almost frustrating to watch.

I started with touch drills, just me and Dashiell, to get his focus locked in: nose to open palm, click, soft liver treat. Then I had Chandler step in for the approach. He stood up, walked to the far wall, turned sideways, and moved along the mirror in that loose, relaxed gait I’d spent forty minutes teaching him. He kept his eyes on the blue floor mat twelve inches in front of Dashiell’s nose, never making direct eye contact.

Dashiell’s ears pinned back. His weight shifted onto his hindquarters.

Chandler stopped instantly.

I hadn’t said a word. I’d only tightened my fingers around the clicker, but Chandler caught the reflection in the mirror and froze mid-stride, hovering on one foot for half a second before setting his sneaker down with total control.

He glanced toward me, the question in his eyes.

I gave the slightest downward tilt of my chin. Wait.

Chandler waited. He dropped into a slow crouch, angled his right shoulder away from the dog, and let his hands dangle loose between his knees.

It took Dashiell nearly a full minute. Then he pushed up onto his paws, crossed the last six feet on his own, and pressed his damp black nose against Chandler’s knee, then his wrist, then the frayed cuff of his sleeve, his whole wiry body stretched forward like a bowstring. The tip of his tail lifted an inch off his hocks.

“Click,” I said.

Chandler pressed the button a fraction of a second late and tossed a peanut butter treat. It bounced off Dashiell’s snout, but Dashiell snapped it up off the mat anyway.

“Bad timing,” Chandler said.

“It was fine. A little quicker on the release next time.”

“Quicker release.” He nodded seriously, committing it to memory. “He came all the way to me, Sloane.”

“I saw.”

“He came the entire way across the room.”

I kept my face completely flat, though my back teeth were clamped together hard enough to ache.

It was wonderful. It was the exact milestone we needed if Dashiell was going to pass his evaluation for the Boulder rescue. It was the only reason Chandler was sitting on the floor in the first place.

I couldn’t figure out why my chest felt like something was pressing straight through my ribs.

Chandler was reading the dog faster than I had. He hadn’t spent two years volunteering here. He hadn’t spent three straight weeks in August sitting on cold concrete reading my summer Biology packet out loud just to get Dashiell to stop snarling at the gate. He’d shown up twice, and he already knew how to read my hand in the mirror, and Dashiell was nudging his sleeve like an old friend.

Chandler wasn’t supposed to be a natural at this. He was supposed to be the backup handler. The safety net.

I hated myself for feeling the sting, hated it enough that I made myself say, “That was really good work,” just to punish the jealousy in my head.

Chandler looked up at me, his eyes lingering on my forehead. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re sweating.”

“It’s hot in here.”

“The thermostat by the light switch says sixty-eight.” He pointed a thumb at the wall. “You’re sweating and your shoulders are shaking at the same time.”

I yanked the cuffs of my fleece down over my knuckles. “Leash transfer,” I said. “Let’s go.”

We worked through the leash transfer twice, then body handling, and then the novel object drill, which today was a broken yellow umbrella Miss Davison had propped in the corner. When I popped it open, Dashiell bolted behind my legs, trembling against my calf.

Then, after four slow repetitions, he chose to hide behind Chandler’s legs instead.

That was the moment that hollowed me out. Behind Chandler.

By the time we clipped the long lead on to take him out to the play yard, the midday sun was beating through the glass, and the throbbing in my thigh had swallowed every other thought.

The back exit of the training room led down to the play yard through a set of shallow concrete steps. I’d run down them hundreds of times without thinking. Today, I took the long loop around the corner to the wooden ramp built for the supply wheelbarrows, walking down the incline with Dashiell’s lead wrapped around my wrist like it was just my normal route.

Behind me, Chandler took the concrete steps. He didn’t say a word, but I felt his eyes track the ramp, then my back, the same heavy stare he’d given me by the science wing elevator.

The yard smelled like crushed grass, dry cottonwood leaves, and the pine breeze coming off the trail behind the cedar fence. The gravel in the center looked painfully sharp in the hard fall light, every stone glowing with a white edge. Near the fence, the kiddie pool was half full, the outdoor spigot leaking a steady, hissing stream that darkened the dirt.

I stepped off the grass onto the gravel.

My left foot landed two inches short of where I aimed it, the rock sliding under my sole.

Second step.

A wave of gray static washed through my thigh.

Third step.

My left leg didn’t buckle. It quit.

There was no stumble to hide, no recovery to fake. The joint vanished beneath me like the bone had turned to water, and the pain tore straight up the center of it so fast the air left my lungs. The sky flipped sideways. The gravel rushed up.

I never hit the ground.

An arm locked across the front of my ribs, hauling me backward. Another wrapped around my shoulders, taking my full weight before my hip could smash into the rock. The red nylon lead tore out of my fingers. Somewhere to the left, Dashiell scrambled away across the gravel, his claws clicking in panic.

Chandler had me.

He went down on one knee in the sharp stones, both arms wrapped around me, anchoring me against his chest. His hands were freezing through my fleece, one spread wide across my ribs, the other between my shoulder blades, both cold from the treat pouch.

His breath came fast and jagged against my neck.

My lungs refused to pull in air.

“I’ve got you,” Chandler said, his voice ragged in my ear. “I’ve got you, Sloane. Don’t move.”

The white light in my leg burned down to a deep red. I forced a breath into my chest, my ribs shaking against his arm.

“I’m fine,” I managed. “I tripped on the hose.”

“You didn’t trip.”

“The gravel shifted.”

“You didn’t trip!” His arms tightened, holding me up off the dirt. “Your leg gave out. I saw it. It’s been giving out all week. It gave out in the parking lot last night, didn’t it? That’s how you tore your hands up.”

“Let go of me, Chandler.”

“No.”

“Chandler. Let me go.”

“No.”

I’d never heard that tone come out of his mouth. Not once in sixteen years. I tried to push up off his chest, but the movement sent another white-hot shock straight through the bone, and a sound tore out of my throat, a ragged, ugly gasp that made his grip tighten until I could barely breathe.

“Stop,” he said, and his voice cracked. “Stop moving. Sloane, please.”

“I can stand up.”

“Stop lying to me!”

The shout tore through the quiet yard.

Everything seemed to stop at once. The spigot kept hissing against the dirt. Dashiell stood pressed flat against the cedar fence, his eyes wide. Inside the kennel wing, a single dog let out a sharp bark and went quiet.

Chandler never yelled. Not during soccer matches, not when somebody took him out from behind, not when Tahni dumped him by the cafeteria doors freshman year. He never lost his temper. The sound of his voice breaking in the open air made my pulse stutter.

“Stop lying to me,” he whispered, his forehead pressed against the side of my head, his voice coming apart. “I’ve known you my whole life.”

I heard the words, and all my brain could process was humiliation. You’re broken. You’re a project. You’re another disaster he has to fix on his day off.

I reached for the only weapon I had left.

“You’re not my brother,” I said, each word deliberate and sharp. “And you’re not my boyfriend. You’re the guy who holds the other end of the leash. Start acting like it.”

The second it was out of my mouth, a sick hollow opened in my stomach. It hit far harder than I’d meant it to, and I’d meant to draw blood.

Chandler’s breath stopped. His chest went completely still against my back. His arms stayed around me, but his hands went slack on my fleece, as if touching me had burned his fingers.

We stayed there on the gravel for five long seconds.

Then, moving with rigid, careful precision, he shifted his grip, got his shoulder under my arm, and hauled me up until my right foot found the flat stones. He took every ounce of my weight while my left leg hung useless, his eyes fixed on the fence line, refusing to look at my face.

Across the yard, the window of the training room reflected the midday glare.

Miss Davison stood on the other side of the glass, her clipboard clutched so tightly against her chest that the plastic bowed. A gray strand of hair had escaped her bun, hanging loose against her cheek. She’d watched every second of it. Her eyes held mine through the window, steady and solemn, before she stepped back into the shadows of the building.

She wouldn’t let this go. Not for long.

“Can you walk to the Jeep,” Chandler said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.”

He reached down with his free hand and gathered Dashiell’s lead off the stones. Dashiell trotted over immediately and pressed his head against Chandler’s knee, not looking at me once.

The ride home was completely silent.

I sat in the passenger seat with my left leg stretched straight into the footwell, my hands pressed together in my lap to keep the scabs on my palms from sticking to my jeans. The door frame had been baking in the noon sun, and the heat still stung my fingers where I’d gripped it to climb in.

A wave of chills hit the moment the Jeep cleared the shelter gates, rattling my jaw and shaking through my shoulders. I kept my hands clamped in my lap. I refused to reach for the heater and let him see the tremor.

At the red light beside Java Junction, Chandler drew in a sharp breath. His lips parted, and his right hand lifted off the steering wheel, hovering in the empty space between the seats for two seconds.

The light turned green. He closed his fingers into a fist, set his hand back on the wheel, and pressed the gas.

He pulled into my driveway, shifted into park, and left the engine running. Dad’s Suburban was gone. Pops’ Silverado was gone too, some Saturday thing on base, and Stetson wasn’t due home from work until six.

“Don’t tell anyone,” I said to the windshield.

He didn’t answer.

“Chandler. Not Stetson. Not my dads. Nobody.”

He stared straight ahead at the closed garage door. His hands gripped the wheel at ten and two, squeezing so hard the leather creaked.

“Sloane.”

“Promise me.”

He closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them, they cut to mine for a fraction of a second, so tired he looked five years older, before flicking away to the side mirror.

“I promise,” he said.

The words came out rough, like they hurt on the way up. He hated every syllable, and he hated me a little for making him say them.

Let him hate it, I told myself. As long as he keeps it.

I almost told him everything, right there with the engine running. Instead, I opened the door.

I stepped down onto the concrete on my right foot, using the door frame for support, and walked toward the porch without looking back. The Jeep idled in the driveway until I turned the deadbolt from the inside.

He always waited until the lock clicked.

By six o’clock, I was buried under four heavy quilts with the fairy lights off and an ice pack pressed hard against my left thigh, shaking so badly the mattress vibrated beneath me. Bernard lay stretched out along my right side, his warm body pressed against my ribs like an anchor.

At 6:25, the Lexus rumbled into the driveway. The front door thudded. Stetson’s footsteps came up the stairs.

My bedroom door swung open without a knock.

Stetson leaned against the frame in his red work polo, smelling like fryer oil and seasoned salt, his dirty blond hair flattened on one side from his visor. He looked tired, confused, and thoroughly irritated, the exact face he made whenever the world refused to follow his rules.

“Chandler says you’re mad at him,” Stetson said, crossing his arms. “He won’t tell me why.” He narrowed his eyes at the blankets. “What did you do to him?”

My pulse jumped so hard I felt it in my throat.

For one terrifying second, I was certain the wall had come down. Chandler had broken the promise before the dinner rush, Stetson knew about the play yard and the blood in the parking lot, and my brother was standing in my doorway waiting for me to fall apart.

Then the words registered.

What did you do to him. Not why is your leg failing. Not why did you hide this.

Chandler had kept the promise.

The truth was right there on the tip of my tongue, heavy and suffocating. My leg gave out. It’s been giving out for two weeks. Stetson, I think something is really wrong with me. My twin brother, who had shared a crib with me before either of us had words, was standing six feet away, asking for an answer.

I reached under the quilt and slid the edge of the blanket over the plastic rim of the ice pack.

“Nothing,” I said, keeping my voice cool and flat. “He’s being dramatic. Close my door.”

Stetson lingered in the doorway for three long seconds, studying my face in the dim room. Then he pulled the door shut, and the latch clicked into the frame.