Two
The elevator doors slide open with a soft whoosh, and a wave of humid air rolls through the parking garage.
Within seconds, my uniform feels heavier than it did inside the airport.
Mom promised she would wash all my summer clothes before I arrived, and right now, a cotton T-shirt and a pair of shorts sound like pure luxury.
I adjust the strap of my duffel and head toward Level D; grateful Dave is waiting somewhere ahead.
Dad’s face pushes its way back into my thoughts before I make it halfway across the garage. A week ago, Mom’s trembling voice shattered the routine of my day.
“Your father had a heart attack.”
The words still steal the air from my lungs.
A “widow-maker,” she said. Even now, I have trouble thinking the words without feeling sick.
The Army processed my emergency leave as quickly as possible, but there was no way I’d make it home before bypass surgery.
All I could do was wait for updates, pray every time my phone rang, and hope each call from her would bring better news.
A sharp scraping sound against the concrete jerks me out of my thoughts. I stop walking and listen. Silence settles over the parking garage, broken only by the distant hum of traffic outside. My gaze sweeps the rows of parked cars, but I don’t see anyone. Shrugging it off, I take another step.
Then I hear it again.
This time it’s closer.
Years of defensive training kick in before I have time to think.
My shoulders square, my breathing slows, and every muscle sharpens with awareness as I search for movement between the vehicles.
Nothing. Only a pile of old newspapers and windblown trash tucked against the corner of the concrete wall.
Then I hear it again, softer this time. Not a scrape. A whimper.
My pulse eases. I move cautiously toward the sound, careful not to startle whatever is hiding there.
The newspapers rustle, and for one ridiculous second, I brace myself for a rat.
Instead, two impossibly dark eyes framing a sweet face peek through the mess.
A tiny black puppy limps into view, his ribs showing beneath a matted coat as he studies me with equal parts fear and hope. Aww. My heart melts.
“Well, hello there,” I whisper.
The pup hesitates after every step, as though it’s trying to decide whether humans are worth trusting. When I reach out ever so slightly, it flinches. The tiny movement lands like a punch to the chest. Somebody hurt it.
“I know, baby,” I softly coo, lowering myself onto one knee and keeping my hands where it can see them. “I know somebody taught you people like me are scary but, you seem like a little trooper, and I’m going to prove them wrong.”
For nearly a minute neither of us moves. We simply study each other until curiosity wins it over. The puppy inches closer, and I extend a single finger instead of my whole hand. It sniffs it cautiously, then takes another tiny step. “That’s it,” I murmur. “You’re so brave.”
When it’s close enough, I slide one hand beneath its chest and lift it carefully against me, peeking underneath.
“Little boy, huh?” I look into his eyes before pulling him close and speak with a soft voice. “You really are a little trooper, aren’t you.”
He trembles so hard I can feel every shiver through my shirt. Instinct takes over, and I tuck him inside the open front of my uniform, cradling him against my chest where he’s warm, protected, and close enough to hear and feel my heartbeat.
“It’s okay, little guy,” I whisper, and press a kiss to the top of his head. “I got you.”
His little tongue darts out and brushes against the damp skin on my cheek and a realization settles in me almost immediately. He’s thirsty.
My phone vibrates again. Without taking my eyes off the dog, I answer.
“Hey.”
“Where are you?” Dave asks. “I’m beginning to think you got lost.”
“I sort of did.”
“What do you mean?”
I smile down at the tiny face peeking out from inside my uniform. “I found a friend. He needs a ride, too.”
There’s a brief pause before Dave answers. “Okay, I’ll come to you.”
“I’m near the first-floor elevator. See you in a minute.” I slip my phone back into my pocket and gently scratch behind the puppy’s ear. He leans into my hand and his eyes drift closed almost instantly. It’s as if he’s been waiting his whole short little life for someone to show him kindness.
“I love dogs but, just so you know,” I whisper, “my mom doesn’t share my love of animals. She won’t hurt you, but she won’t really like you, either.”
His tail gives one hopeful little wag.
Something tells me neither of us is going anywhere without the other.