Chapter 24 #2
Before my thoughts can drag me somewhere darker, Archer’s hand lands firmly on my thigh, and he squeezes once, his touch telling me he’s here and he’s not leaving me this time.
I hate it.
I hate it so fucking much.
I hate what happened to me. I hate what happened to that dog. I hate that my brother still carries guilt for something that was never his fault.
“So he can’t see at all?” Archer’s voice is tight, and Mom shakes her head slowly.
“No.” Her fingers curl into the fabric of her sweater. “The last time we were there, he was at the hospital. The infection was so painful and so severe that they had to remove his eyes completely and sew the lids shut.”
What the actual fuck. The image is brutal, and my lungs refuse to expand around it.
“We promised the rescue shelter owner that we would take him as soon as he was discharged from the hospital and cleared to travel,” Mom continues with a tremor beneath her voice.
Dad’s jaw flexes as if he is physically restraining everything he wants to say.
“He’s also dealing with serious gut issues,” Mom adds, brushing her thumb over the edge of her mug. “Zane has been researching homemade meals that could help heal his digestion.”
I don’t doubt that for a single second. My father does not do anything halfway, especially not when it comes to something wounded. I know he will turn this into more than an act of kindness; he will make it a mission to ensure that this dog never feels abandoned again.
“Won’t it be difficult to find him another family?” Archer asks, though the slight drop at the end of his voice tells me he already understands where this is heading.
Mom doesn’t hesitate, confirming our suspicion. “No. We’re not fostering him. We’re keeping him.”
It has been years since my parents had dogs of their own.
When Archer and I were kids, we had two—Mystery, who technically belonged to Dad, and Tassels, Mom’s impossibly pampered Maltese who ruled the house like a tiny monarch.
After they passed following long, healthy lives, my parents decided to foster instead, opening their home to animals who needed stability before moving on to permanent families.
“This will be different,” I sign.
Mom nods, and there’s finally a softness in her smile. “I know. But with you two gone, the house already feels too empty.”
“What’s his name?” Violet asks softly.
Mom and Dad exchange another one of those quiet looks and then Mom answers. “Echo.”
Echo.
A remnant. A reminder of what used to be.
Violet shifts slightly in her seat, absorbing it the same way I am. “Can I see him?” she asks carefully. “Or is he too scared?”
“S-surprisingly, for having been through s-so much, he’s very quiet and gentle. Th-there isn’t an ounce of aggression in him. If anything, it’s his t-timidness that breaks your heart. He m-moves like he’s apologizing for existing.”
I understand that kind of quiet.
Not all wounds turn you sharp. Not all pain makes you bare your teeth.
Some wounds hollow you out so deeply that you learn to shrink instead of roar, to make yourself smaller instead of dangerous.
I don’t know whether this is fate or coincidence, but I do know that my parents haven’t just brought home a rescue—they have brought home a reflection.
The humid air of the greenhouse wraps around us the moment Dad flicks on the light. It smells of basil, wet clay, and the faint sweetness of blooming orchids.
Near the worn couch where Mom usually sits with a book while Dad works among his plants, two stainless steel bowls gleam under the soft yellow bulbs, one filled with water, and the other with food.
It must have been Mom who arranged two thick dog beds on the floor and a folded blanket on the couch cushion to offer another option for Echo.
Yet he hasn’t chosen any of them.
Dad’s eyes sweep the room, searching, and I follow the path of his gaze until it settles behind a cluster of tall rubber plants. Between three heavy ceramic pots, pressed into the narrow space as if trying to disappear into the wall itself, I spot a thin white tail.
“Th-there he is,” Dad says quietly.
Mom moves in slow steps. “Echo, baby.”
The sound that answers her is not a bark but a faint, broken whimper that barely rises above the hum of the greenhouse fans.
Dad glances at me, and I see it again, that tightening in his expression. “H-he is debarked.”
Archer straightens. “What the fuck does that even mean?”
“They r-removed part of his vocal cords so he w-wouldn’t make noise when in p-pain.”
I don’t know how to breathe for a second.
“Please tell me there’s at least a police report against those people?” Archer’s voice vibrates with fury.
Dad nods. “We f-filed one. They argued that they were t-trying to do what was necessary to keep him in th-their home.”
“That’s fucking bullshit.” Archer’s hands fist at his sides. “You don’t mutilate your kids so they fit your convenience. You don’t silence your family so your life stays comfortable.”
Dad’s shoulders draw tight. “I a-agree. Unfortunately, the laws ar-round animal w-welfare are still too lenient. But we made s-sure the shelter f-flagged them. They w-won’t be allowed to own a p-pet again.”
As I stand there, staring at the space where Echo has wedged himself into invisibility, something inside me fractures.
He lost his sight. He lost his voice. Yet somehow, he is still gentle.
Mom bends slowly, and when she straightens again, Echo is cradled against her chest, his small body tucked securely into the curve of her arms. He looks almost weightless, the white of his coat luminous against the dense green of the greenhouse.
His eyes are closed, the smooth seams barely visible beneath the pale fur. He moves only in the smallest ways, a faint tilt of his head, the slightest twitch of his ears.
“The active inflammation has settled,” Mom explains quietly as she reaches us, her fingers moving in slow strokes along his back. “His eyes aren’t in pain anymore. The disease burned through its course.”
Violet steps closer. “Was he always this light?”
Mom shakes her head gently. “No. He’s a Shiba Inu. He was red once—a deep red, we think.” She studies his coat as if picturing the version he used to be. “Now the pigment has faded along his face and back. You can see his muzzle is almost cream, and his nose turned pink.”
Violet’s fingers twitch slightly at her side. “Can I hold him… or will he not like it?”
Mom smiles and we witness a quiet miracle that is Echo’s docile demeanor, his ability to trust humans after what’s been done to him.
“Surprisingly, he likes being held, even hugged.” She adjusts Echo against her. “He’s just sensitive to sudden movements. Why don’t you try? If he doesn’t like it, I’ll take him back.”
Everything inside me tightens as Mom steps toward Violet.
For a split second, I am terrified that Echo might flinch or recoil and unintentionally hurt Violet.
But when Mom transfers Echo into Violet’s arms, it’s like something flips.
For a fraction of a second, Echo stiffens, his ears twitching upward.
Then, almost reverently, he relaxes. He stretches his neck toward Violet’s shoulder, resting his head against her collarbone, before releasing a long, trembling breath.
“Holy hell. What the fuck just happened?”
Archer steals the question straight from me. I don’t understand it either.
A raw sound tears out of Violet as if clawing its way through every wall she has kept standing since the accident. The gut-wrenching sobs continue, while she clutches Echo tighter. Her entire frame trembles around him.
For a second, I think I might shatter too.
Since the accident, Violet has been agitated, guarded, and withdrawn. She has carried her confusion like armor. But she hasn’t cried like this, like something inside her has finally cracked open.
Archer mutters a string of curses before he turns abruptly and leaves the greenhouse. Mom’s tears spill freely as she rubs slow circles along Violet’s back, whispering something too soft for me to hear.
I stand there frozen, my eyes burning. My fists are balled at my sides, useless. I don’t know whether to step forward or stay back. I don’t know whether touching her will ground her or undo her further.
Finally, Mom pries Echo from Violet’s arms. He makes a small, broken coo of protest before settling again, his body still angled toward Violet.
“I’m so sorry,” Violet whispers hoarsely. “I don’t know what just happened.”
When Violet adjusts the strap of her sling, a fresh wave of worry rises in me. Did she hold him too long?
I step closer and gently nudge Dad’s shoe, a quiet signal I’ve used since I was a kid whenever I needed someone’s attention without interrupting the room. He glances down, then at my hands as I begin to sign.
This time, he translates for me.
“I-is your arm okay, Violet? You held Ec-cho for t-too long.”
Violet’s gaze lifts to Dad, who tilts his head toward me, letting her know the question came from me. I don’t want her fumbling for her phone right now.
She nods once to him, then to me. “He’s actually very, very light.” Her voice is still thick from crying.
Dad gives a small nod. “H-he’s malnourished.”
Violet’s fingers curl around the edge of her sling. “How can somebody do something like this to another life?”
“W-when we come across cases like th-this,” Dad says, “I’m r-reminded how privileged w-we are not to w-witness the ugliness of the world every s-single day.” His eyes drift briefly toward Echo. “B-but for some creatures, that ugliness is th-their entire world, until someone d-decides to change it.”