THE CEO ALREADY KNEW
I say.
"He's healing."
"That's the same thing."
---
The weeks pass.
Oak slowly emerges — a tail wag here, a head on the knee there. He follows Celeste from room to room, not close, but present. He sleeps at the foot of the bed, a small warm weight.
"You're good with him," I say.
"I'm patient."
"That's the same thing."
---
Spring is coming.
The garden wakes. Oak discovers the joy of lying in the sun, his belly exposed, his legs twitching as he dreams. Celeste plants tomatoes, peppers, and herbs. The same rituals, the same hope.
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