Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Miles leaned heavily on his cane and asked himself—not for the first time—how he’d let Abby sucker him into this.
A school. He hadn’t even liked being in school when he’d been a child.
Too rough and rowdy when he’d been young.
Always busy. Later resigned and mildly resentful.
Well, what teenager wasn’t? Counting down the days until he could cut loose and forge his own path.
“Heel, Nix. No, the other side.” Neither of them had quite figured out the right-side heel, yet.
The spotted Dalmatian, slightly ahead of him, huffed, his heavy jowls quivering, but slowed down and wound himself around to his other side as Miles painstakingly hobbled up the hallway, counting the doors.
He shouldn’t have bothered, finally arriving at a large and colorful banner proclaiming, “Welcome to Ms. Pritchard’s Classroom: Together We Are a Rainbow of Possibilities.” Little crayon placards underneath showed the names of her students, indeed, in a rainbow of colors.
Miles frowned as he tugged his cuffs lower over his wrists and ignored the now-familiar prickle of sweat between his shoulder blades.
Even if he were comfortable with others seeing the extensive scars now decorating a third of his body, he didn’t think he should bear them to a classroom full of already-traumatized children.
A low buzz of happy noise came from beyond the door, and he steeled himself for a moment.
Kids.
He hadn’t liked them much even before The Accident.
He’d never forgive Abby.
Assuming he survived the next hour.
Straightening the red canvas therapy dog vest Nix wore, he brushed a few short, white hairs away, then squared his shoulders and knocked.
The abrupt silence from within ran a shiver of awareness up his spine. They might be children, but Miles recognized the texture of this stillness. He’d participated in it more than once, after a bad call. Now, he helped his brothers after their bad calls, but soon he’d be back again.
Soon.
His breath juddered as he waited. Geez, he missed it: the tension, the scramble of action, the sour scent of sweat that no amount of cleaning could ever quite clear. The lights and the sirens and the dump of adrenaline right before the flames licked up. Except the last time...
Before red-tinged memories consumed him, the door swung open, wrenching his mind back to the present with a cascade of brown hair and bright eyes, forest green with a starburst of brown.
They shimmered with unshed tears, and his heart lurched unexpectedly as she spoke.
“Oh, you’re here.”
Her tight, breathless voice sent chills cascading over his skin, and he recognized her tone: the unwinding thread of panic knotting itself into the body until safety could be assured again.
His lungs hitched unexpectedly—the ghost of smoke without its essence—as her hands trembled, her knuckles clenched white on the door handle.
What had happened to them?
Nix whined and shifted at his side, pulling his ears back as he sensed the carefully coiled tension, and the young woman’s gaze flicked to the dog before pulling back to his.
Miles swallowed hard as she visibly collected herself, relaxed her grip, and swished her long, gently curling hair over her shoulder.
She’s stunning. And much younger than I expected.
When Abby said he’d be visiting a classroom, he’d somehow pictured his own elementary school teachers: mature, matronly types with iron-gray hair in high, uptight buns.
“Come in.” She stepped back and gestured a welcome.
More than twenty sets of eyes fixed on him as he and Nix hobbled into the room. The leather leash creaked in his fist as his steps stuttered to a halt.
Nix shook, the motion starting at his nose and working its way to his neck, then down his spine, until his tail whipped back and forth, his paws sliding out on the linoleum floor and claws clicking as he regained his footing.
Finished settling his fur, he yawned, the slightest whimper slipping out as his jaws snapped shut again.
“He’s tired,” a tiny blonde in the corner piped up.
“He’s stressed,” Miles corrected gruffly. Nix didn’t mind kids, but he’d never faced a classroom full of them. More sweat broke out, drenching his skin under his long sleeves. Did schools not have A/C these days?
The teacher—Ms. Pritchard, Abby’s message had said—flinched, and several of the kids scooted backward in their chairs.
Miles growled quietly, and Nix stretched, sliding his front paws forward until he fully bowed to the class. Another stress response: his third since they’d arrived.
He reached down to ruffle Nix’s ears, one white with a smattering of dark spots, the other black. “Easy, boy.”
The teacher widened her eyes at him, equal parts warning and pleading. What did she want?
With a resigned shake of her head, she turned to her class. “Everyone, welcome our special guest, please. This is Mr. Porter and his therapy dog, Phoenix.”
“Nix.” He corrected, then cleared his throat when she shot him another look. “You can call him Nix. And you can call me Miles.” Should he call her Ms. Pritchard? Or, what had Abby called her? A food. Jam? Jelly?
Jif!
She shook her head. “It should at least be Mr. Miles to the kids. What would be the best way to do this?”
Usually, they hung out at the firehouse for a couple hours, much as they had done before The Accident.
If someone wanted to pet Nix, they’d wander in, or he’d go seek them out in their bunk, or, more likely, the kitchen, where he could beg a couple scraps.
Not the best behavior for a therapy dog, but given the Dalmatian tendency toward food obsession, not a surprise, either.
If they went to the precinct, the same system worked.
Nix would wander around, and if someone wanted his attention, they called him over.
Miles wasn’t sure the same approach would be right for a classroom.
He grimaced. He really shouldn’t have let Abby talk him into this, but he couldn’t turn back now, and though his leg ached and his hand tingled from the weight on his cane, he needed to figure it out.
Spying a large carpet circle in the back corner, he waved toward it. “We can try there. They can sit in a circle, and Nix can visit with them.”
“All at the same time?”
Just then, the ache exploded into a shooting pain, spiraling from his ankle all the way to his hip, and he locked his teeth together, jaw clenching tight as he swayed in place. The labyrinthine walk from the school office to the classroom had taken too long. “Can I... Do you have a chair?”
In an instant, she went from skeptical to concerned, and her eyes flicked to the cane he clutched in a white-knuckled grip.
“Of course, here.”
Beads of moisture freckled his forehead as she led him toward an antique wingbacked chair next to the carpet. Upholstered in sapphire blue, with a flat, flimsy cushion, he sank into it with a near-silent groan.
“Are you... okay?”
Miles nodded, then froze when his eyes locked with hers, wide and worried, framed by long, caramel curls that nearly brushed his arm as she leaned over him. The strands released a swirl of floral aromas as they slid fluidly over her shoulder.
He grunted, and she backed away, giving him space, but also stealing the subtle scent he couldn’t quite place. Wasn’t sure he wanted to. Couldn’t seem to help trying, anyway.
“Sorry, old injury.”
He glanced at the kids watching with their own varying expressions, some with eyes straying to Nix, where he hovered by Miles’s knee, others locked on him, nervous and twitchy.
He swallowed the nausea still threatening as the pain ebbed back to the dull ache he’d learned to live with. To mostly ignore.
He had to fix this.
Abby would never forgive him if his visit left these kids worse off than they were before.
He’d never forgive himself.
He may not know how to help them, but he couldn’t ignore their all-too-obvious need.
“Come on, guys. Come say hi to Nix.”
A few of the boys checked in with their teacher, then half-rose from their seats, but the girls responded more slowly, except for the blonde who’d spoken first. She bolted from her chair toward the carpet, throwing her arms around Nix and burying her face in his shoulder.
The dog twitched, and Miles cursed himself for not better preparing him for the onslaught of children.
He’d really screwed this one up. Nix wouldn’t bite, but it would break trust if, after inviting them over, he told the kids to back off.
“Maybe a few at a time so he doesn’t get overwhelmed.”
The teacher took charge with brisk instructions.
“Hannah, you can stay. Jacob, Danny, and Laila?” She turned back to him. “Is that too many?”
He shook his head. “Even a couple more would be okay.”
“Elias, you can come, too. The rest of you, let’s at least try to focus on your math sheets.”
She smiled, cheeks glowing like the first warm flush of the rising sun.
Eyes fixed on her expression, he missed Nix rolling to his back, legs pedaling the air, until the little girl—Anna? Hannah?—giggled.
“Let go, Nix.” She pulled at her skirt, trying to untangle it from his paw.
Glancing down, Miles unwound the long, wispy fabric, then reminded the boy—Elias?—not to poke his fingers into Nix’s mouth.
By the time he glanced back up, she had moved on, ready to help another student, and her sunshine expression had melted away to one of concentration as she bent over a desk, listening intently to the child’s words.
Miles rubbed the spot below his ribs and wondered if he needed to change his pain prescription. Heartburn shouldn’t be a side effect.
After ten minutes, she sent the kids back to their seats, and a new group came to the carpet.
Nix, now clear on the assignment, let the kids crowd around him in a tight circle, petting and scratching.
He bestowed licks liberally on hands and the occasional cheek, much to their shrieking delight.
The teacher, Jif, sat at her desk and occasionally glanced over, happy to let him manage his dog and the kids.
Miles leaned back in the chair, propping his leg to one side and rubbing his thigh. He didn’t realize his expression had darkened until a shadow fluttered into his space.
“Do you need a break? Are they being too much?” Her eyes flicked to the students.
He grunted, then shook his head, clearing his frown. “They’re fine.”
“Do you need anything else? Water? A snack?”
His brows knit together. A snack? Did she consider him one of her students? “I’m fine.”
Her face crumpled slightly. “Okay, but let me know if you change your mind. I have plenty.”
He’d hurt her feelings.
Miles cleared his throat. “Thanks. I will. Ah, Ms. Pritchard?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Call me Jif.”
“Jif, right. Maybe some water, if you have it.”
“I’ll grab a bottle for you. Shera, did you have a question?”
“Mr. Miles, how old is Nix?”
He ducked his head, finding the dark-haired girl in the crowd of students as he answered, “He’s three-and-a-half.”
“Have you watched 101 Dalmatians?” another kid asked from their desk, turned around in his chair, schoolwork completely abandoned behind him.
“I have. I almost named him Pongo, but I didn’t want something too cliché.”
“What’s cliché?”
“Does he have any brothers and sisters?”
“What does Nix mean?”
The questions came fast and furious, and he reared back in his seat as Jif returned with a bottle of spring water. She must have a mini-fridge somewhere in the classroom for it to be so cold and fresh. This certainly wasn’t the kind of elementary school he’d attended.
He fixated on the most recent question. “Nix is short for Phoenix. A phoenix is a firebird.”
“What’s a firebird?”
“Why did you name him that?”
“How many spots does he have?”
Jif chuckled. “Easy, y’all. Let Mr. Miles answer one question at a time. Hands, please. Shera, you’ve had a turn. Emma, what’s your question?”
She did it effortlessly, turning chaos into order, like the moment they had the flames under control. The fire still burned, but it had already lost. Winning before they’d won.
“Why do you have a cane?”
Miles froze, and his hand strayed to rub his thigh again.
Jif frowned and said firmly, “Questions about the dog, Emma.”
“I don’t mind.” He forced his hand away from his leg and leaned down to fondle Nix’s velvety ears, instead—one white with four spots in the shape of a diamond, the other patched black.
A fault, if you asked any breeder, but those ears had comforted him through more dark nights than he could recall.
He’d counted those spots again and again, traced their pattern like a constellation, his own, personal celestial navigation through tortured hours of near-unbearable pain.
The dog, attuned to his emotions, leaned into the touch, then turned his head to lick a boy’s cheek.
Miles cleared his throat. “I had an accident last fall. It still hurts, so I use a cane to help me get around until it heals.”
“We had an accident here,” the boy who’d been licked volunteered.
“Yeah, the windows broke, and the lights went out, and the fire alarms went off,” another elaborated.
Several kids had gone quiet, and the little blonde, Hannah’s, eyes filled, tears spilling over onto pale cheeks.
“That must have been scary, huh?”
Jif’s eyes shot to his, and the slight shake of her head warned him not to pursue the subject, but the kids nodded, agreeing with his words.
“Ms. Pritchard took good care of us, but we had to go home early, and we couldn’t come back for two days.”
“It sounded like gunshots.”
“I was so scared.” Hannah had drifted back to the carpet with a tissue clamped in her hand, and she wrapped her arms around Nix again.
He spoke quietly, compassion lacing his tone. “I bet.”
Hannah hugged Nix once more, then went back to her seat, and Jif’s eyes tracked the girl, a perplexed line bisecting her forehead.
In some ways, the kids were easier to talk to than his brothers. More open. But fundamentally, the conversation wasn’t so different.
“Sometimes hard things happen, and they shake us.”
Wide eyes watched him from all over the room, waiting breathlessly for his next words.
“It can take a little while to regain our equilibrium—uh, I mean, to find a sense of normalcy again. You will eventually.”
One of the boys leaned forward on the carpet, fingernails scraping the loose pile in long, parallel lines, reminding Miles of prison bars. “Promise?”
“I promise, and I’m here to help until you do.”