Chapter 6
The woman at Jade’s wellness table was crying, and not the quiet, polite kind that could be ignored.
“I’m sorry,” she said, swiping at her face with the tissue Jade had passed her. “I don’t know why I’m— It’s just been so hard lately.”
The woman—mid-forties, silver wedding band, exhaustion written in the fine lines around her eyes—clutched the Phoenix Ridge Mental Health Services brochure like a lifeline. “My husband’s a firefighter. He’s not sleeping and won’t talk about it, and I don’t know how to help him.”
“Have you talked to his department about their peer support program?”
“He says he’s fine.” The woman’s laugh was bitter. “He’s not fine. I can see it, but he won’t admit it.”
Jade had heard this story a hundred times in a dozen different versions. The details changed—police, fire, EMT, military—but the core remained the same. Someone suffering, someone watching them suffer, both of them drowning in silence.
“Here’s what I can tell you,” Jade said, leaning forward. “You can’t make him get help, but you can let him know it’s available, there’s no shame in it, and that you’ll be there whether he goes or not.”
The woman nodded, still crying, but something in her stance shifted. She was less collapsed, more determined.
“And you,” Jade continued, “you need support too. There’s a family support group that meets Tuesday evenings at Lavender’s. Partners of first responders. You don’t have to carry this alone.”
“Tuesday evenings?”
“Seven o’clock. No sign-ups, no pressure, just coffee and people who understand.”
The woman took another tissue and managed a watery smile. “Thank you, really.”
Jade watched her go, hoping she’d show up on Tuesday but knowing she might not. Planting seeds was half the work. Whether they took root and grew depended on factors beyond her control.
She straightened the brochures on her table—stress management, PTSD resources, peer support information—and let her gaze drift across the community center’s main hall.
Lavender had outdone herself with this expansion.
The space felt open and welcoming, with high ceilings and windows that let in the April afternoon light.
The wellness fair had drawn a solid crowd: families with kids, older residents, a handful of veterans she’d clocked immediately by their bearing.
The Phoenix Ridge PD had set up near the far wall for a demonstration. Not a full K-9 demo like the school visit, just an abbreviated version. Maddox stood nearby with Zeus at her side, the dog’s attention laser-focused on her even as children darted past pointing and exclaiming.
Jade hadn’t planned to position her table within sight of the police setup.
It’d just…happened. She’d arrived early, surveyed the layout, and somehow ended up here.
It was a professional courtesy, she told herself.
The fact she could watch Maddox work without being obvious about it was entirely coincidental.
Riley Thorne appeared at Jade’s table, Sarge padding beside her with the easy confidence of a dog who knew he was beloved. “Hey, Jade, how’s it going?”
“Steady. You?”
“Good. We’re doing shifts with the demo. I’m up after Maddox finishes.” Riley glanced toward the police setup. “Solid turnout today. Way better than last year.”
“The community center expansion probably helped. There’s more space, more visibility.”
“Yeah, Lavender really outdid herself.” Riley scratched behind Sarge’s ears. “The school demo went well, too, from what I heard. Kids are still talking about Zeus, apparently.”
“It was a good program.”
“Maddox said you made it easier, having someone there who actually gets what we do.” Riley’s expression was genuinely friendly, rare for her. “Anyway, I need to get Sarge ready. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Will do.”
Riley moved off toward the PD area, and Jade found herself watching Maddox again. The demo hadn’t started yet, but Maddox was already in work mode scanning the crowd and setting up.
Always switched on.
Jade recognized the pattern because she’d lived it herself. The hypervigilance that became background noise, so constant that you forgot it was there until someone pointed it out.
A family approached her table, young parents with a toddler who immediately grabbed for the brochures. Jade spent the next ten minutes talking about early intervention programs, aware even as she spoke that Maddox’s demo had started across the hall.
She heard Zeus’s bark, sharp and controlled, and the collective gasp of the crowd. Maddox’s voice carried across the space as she explained search and rescue protocols.
When the family moved on, Jade let herself watch. Maddox was in her element, and Zeus worked beside her, responding to commands Jade couldn’t hear over the din. The partnership between them was seamless, the perfect synchronization of intent and action.
Jade realized what she was doing and immediately felt her face heat. Inappropriate. Completely inappropriate.
But watching Maddox work was like watching someone speak a language fluently. There was an elegance to it, a quiet confidence that didn’t need to announce itself. Maddox commanded the space without raising her voice and held the crowd captive without performing for their attention.
And when a little girl approached her, Maddox’s whole posture softened in that way Jade had only seen a handful of times. She crouched low to the girl’s level, guided her hand to Zeus’s shoulder, and murmured something that made the girl giggle.
The walls came down for children and dogs. For everything—and everyone—else, they stayed firmly in place.
Jade forced her attention back to her own table. This wasn’t helpful. She was here to give resources, not moon over—
No, not moon. Observe professionally.
She grabbed her water bottle, took a long drink, and made herself focus on arranging pamphlets that didn’t need arranging.
The thing was, the elementary school visit had changed something.
Or maybe it revealed something that had been building all along.
Working with Maddox had felt easy in a way Jade had never expected.
The rhythm of their collaboration, the way they read each other’s cues without needing discussion, the comfortable silences that settled between them.
And Maddox had laughed, really laughed, and later admitted she never laughed.
The vulnerability of that moment had lodged itself somewhere in Jade’s chest and taken up residence there. She tried telling herself it was professional satisfaction from progress in therapy and a client opening up.
But their dynamic had shifted beyond just therapist and client. Their weekly sessions continued but the adversarial edge had dulled, and the out-of-office work was blurring lines Jade knew she should keep sharp.
Movement at the edge of her vision pulled at Jade’s attention.
An older man stood near the back of the crowd watching Maddox’s demonstration, but something about his stance set off alarms in Jade’s head.
He wore a Vietnam-era military jacket despite the mild April temperature, and his hands were clenched at his sides.
Jade tracked him peripherally while engaging with a woman asking about anxiety resources.
The veteran—she was certain now—moved closer to the demo area as the crowd shifted, but it was clear his breathing had gone shallow and quick.
She could see it from here, the way his chest heaved and the rigidity in his shoulders.
Triggered, definitely triggered.
The demo wrapped up, and families surged forward for the supervised Zeus-petting portion. The veteran hung back, drawn to the dogs but struggling. Jade watched his hands shake, watched him take a half-step forward then stop himself.
She started moving before she’d consciously decided to.
“Excuse me,” she said to the woman she’d been helping, passing her a full stack of papers. “Take whatever you need. I’ll be right back.”
The veteran was closer now, watching Zeus with an intensity that bordered on desperate. Zeus, for his part, sensed something, and his ears swiveled and his attention shifted from the children to the man hovering at the crowd’s edge.
Maddox noticed too. Of course she did. Her gaze flicked to the veteran, then to Jade approaching, and something passed between them. Jade slowed her approach, making herself non-threatening. The last thing this man needed was someone rushing at him.
“Hi,” she said, keeping her voice low and calm. “I’m Jade. Are you here for the wellness fair?”
The veteran’s eyes were unfocused, somewhere else entirely. “The dogs. I just wanted to see the dogs.”
“They’re beautiful, aren’t they? Belgian Malinois. Incredible working dogs.”
He nodded, but his breathing was getting more ragged. Jade clocked he was beginning to hyperventilate. Sixty seconds, maybe ninety, before full panic set in.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Robert.” The word came out strangled.
“Robert, I’m a trauma counselor. Can I help you find somewhere quieter? There is a lot of noise and people.”
He looked at her then, really looked, and she saw the terror underneath. The recognition that he was losing control in a public space, that he couldn’t stop it, that everyone would see.
“I’m okay,” he said, the most obvious lie in the world. “I just need— I should go—”
Maddox appeared at Jade’s shoulder. She didn’t touch Robert or crowd him, just positioned herself at an angle that blocked some of the audience’s view.
“There’s a quieter room this way,” Maddox said, her voice carrying the same calm authority she used with Zeus. “We can step away for a minute. No pressure.”
Robert’s gaze went to Maddox’s uniform, and for a second, Jade thought he might bolt. But then his eyes found Zeus, still sitting at Maddox’s side, and something in him steadied fractionally.
“Okay,” he managed. “Okay.”