Part 4 – “The Shame We Don’t Say”
The next morning, Leonard took Shasta to the dog park behind the public library.
It wasn’t something he’d planned—he just found himself standing in front of the coat rack, leash in hand, a breath of courage in his chest where silence used to be. The sun was already high, but the air still carried the edge of morning.
Shasta barked once when he jingled the leash. A real bark. Surprised him, actually.
“All right,” he said. “You’re the boss.”
The park was three blocks away—flat sidewalks, manageable for his knees. The library lot was mostly empty this early. A few retirees reading the paper on the benches, a mom pushing a stroller, and three dogs already dashing around the fenced-in enclosure.
Leonard hovered outside the gate, adjusting his grip on the leash.
“You’re welcome to come in,” said a voice behind him.
He turned.
The woman was maybe late sixties, round-faced, with graying auburn hair pulled back under a wide sunhat. Her dog—a fluffy white mutt with a curly tail—was sitting like a sphinx at her feet.
“I’m Rose,” she said. “This is Muffin.”
Leonard hesitated, then opened the gate. Shasta sniffed the air cautiously but didn’t tug.
“I’m Leonard,” he said. “This one’s Shasta.”
The two dogs circled each other, tails stiff but wagging. No barking. Just a tense truce. Then Muffin bounced once, paw forward. Shasta mirrored it. And they were off—zigzagging through the grass like mismatched socks.
“She’s new,” Leonard said. “Just got her.”
Rose smiled. “She’s got the look of a second chance.”
Leonard blinked. “What’s that mean?”
“Like she was meant to go somewhere else, but ended up exactly where she was needed.”
Leonard looked out across the grass. Shasta had paused at the base of a tree, nose buried in the roots. Muffin was trotting in figure-eights around her.
“I didn’t expect her,” he said quietly. “My wife… she passed last fall. I think she ordered the dog before that. Surprise gift. Used a debit card that got hacked later.”
Rose looked over gently. “I’m sorry about your wife.”
He nodded. “Me too.”
She waited a beat. “You reported the fraud?”
Leonard looked down. “Eventually. My nephew helped. But it took me two weeks to say it out loud.”
Rose was silent. Then she said, “Mine was a phone call. Said they were from the Medicare office. Told me my coverage was expiring unless I confirmed my number. I gave it to them before I could think.”
Leonard met her eyes.
“$3,200,” she said. “Gone. Took me three months to admit it.”
A crow called from the library roof.
Leonard exhaled. “It makes you feel like an idiot.”
She nodded. “But the shame’s worse than the money.”
He looked down at the heart-shaped tag swinging from Shasta’s collar.
“For Leonard. Love, Marilyn.”
He rubbed it between his fingers like a talisman.
“My wife would’ve seen right through it,” he said. “She always did.”
Rose smiled faintly. “That’s the worst part, isn’t it? Thinking about how the people we lost wouldn’t have let it happen.”
They stood in the quiet for a moment, two figures against a backdrop of dogs and morning light.
Finally, Leonard said, “You tell anyone?”
Rose shook her head. “Just you.”
“Same.”
She looked at him. “Maybe that should change.”
He shrugged. “Don’t know if anyone would listen.”
“Maybe not,” she said. “But maybe someone like us would hear it and realize they’re not the only one.”
Shasta barked and ran back to Leonard, tongue out, tail a metronome. He crouched down and scratched her behind the ear.
“You got opinions, huh?” he muttered.
“She’s a good dog,” Rose said. “You can tell. They carry what we can’t sometimes.”
Leonard straightened up. “You know, I think she saved me. Not in the Hallmark Channel kind of way. Just… pulled me out. A little.”
Rose nodded. “That’s what second chances do.”
As they walked out of the park together, Muffin and Shasta trotting side by side, Leonard realized something he hadn’t felt in a long time.
He wasn’t invisible.
And maybe—just maybe—the worst parts of his story could help someone else stop feeling invisible, too.