Part 5 — “The Dog Who Ate the Diagnosis”
October 8, 1998 – Harper’s Bend, Colorado
Leona had never been one for superstition.
She believed in sutures and sterilization, in vaccinations and vet bills. She believed in the soft thud of a heartbeat and the logic of x-rays. But lately, the line between instinct and something deeper—something stranger—had begun to blur.
Especially when it came to the dog.
Benny lay under the kitchen table, paws crossed like a gentleman waiting for a second cup of coffee. Emmy sat beside him, coloring in an old notebook with a ballpoint pen. Her hair still carried the scent of the pine-scented shampoo Leona had used on her the night before. She looked clean. Rested. Like someone slowly coming back to herself.
Leona stood at the sink, rinsing dishes and thinking about Ray Keller.
He hadn’t just been passing through. She knew that now.
There was something in his eyes—something calculating. Watching. Measuring what she might be willing to risk.
He hadn’t said he was from a foster agency. Hadn’t even shown a badge or any paperwork. And Emmy had seen him before, at the house where she was placed. He’d tried to touch her hair while she slept.
No. That wasn’t something Leona could ignore. Not as a doctor. Not as a woman. Not as someone who’d spent a lifetime helping those without a voice.
She patted her hands dry and grabbed her coat.
“Emmy,” she said, “how do you feel about a trip into town?”
They started at the library.
Harper’s Bend Public Library was no bigger than a double-wide trailer, but the librarian, Maggie Trent, had a memory like a Rolodex and a mistrust of strangers that bordered on art.
Maggie looked up from her desk as they stepped in, Benny trailing behind with his usual casual dignity.
“Well, I’ll be,” she said, pulling off her glasses. “Leona Hargrove, in my library with a child and a dog. That’s a headline.”
Leona gave her a small smile. “I’m looking for anything on a man named Ray Keller. Don’t know if he’s local or state-level, but he showed up at my house two nights ago, asking after this girl.”
Maggie’s eyes narrowed. “She okay?”
“She is now,” Leona said. “But I want to know who he is.”
Maggie tapped her keyboard with long, sharp nails. “Let me see what I can dig up.”
An hour later, Maggie clicked her tongue.
“Well, he’s not with any agency I can see. No foster connections. But there is a Raymond Keller who did some work with a private security company out of Pueblo. Some… shady dealings, if the court records are to be believed.”
Leona’s stomach dropped. “What kind of dealings?”
“Unlicensed tracking. Hired to find ‘runaways.’ Sometimes bounty work, but without a license, it’s illegal. Charges never stuck, but complaints piled up.”
“So he’s not a social worker.”
“Not even close.”
Emmy, who had been pretending to read in the corner, looked up with wide eyes. Benny stood and moved to her side, pressing his body close.
Maggie lowered her voice. “You want me to make a call?”
Leona shook her head. “Not yet. I need to talk to someone first.”
Next stop: the sheriff’s office.
Sheriff Randall Munn had known Leona since the days when they’d both had color in their hair. He was built like a rusted-out refrigerator and had a soft spot for stray dogs and tough women.
He listened quietly as she laid it out—Ray Keller, the visit, Emmy’s past, the danger.
When she finished, he leaned back and let out a long breath.
“You sure about all this?”
“I am.”
“And the girl?”
“She’s been through enough. She deserves to stay put, and she deserves to be believed.”
Randall scratched his chin. “You know this could get messy.”
“I’m not scared of messy.”
“Didn’t think you were.” He stood up. “I’ll make a call to the regional office in Canon City. If Keller’s acting without credentials, they’ll want to know. Meanwhile, you keep that girl close. And keep that dog closer.”
On the way home, Emmy stared out the truck window, chin resting in her palm.
“Do you think he’s still looking for me?” she asked softly.
Leona didn’t lie. “Yes. But I don’t think he’ll find you again. And if he does, he’ll have to come through me.”
“And Benny,” Emmy added.
Leona smiled. “And Benny.”
The dog lifted his head at the sound of his name and thumped his tail once against the truck seat.
Emmy looked at him, then back at Leona. “Do you think… he knew my mom was sick before she did?”
“I think he knows more than most,” Leona said. “He knew when I wasn’t ready to read the truth. Knew when you needed someone to follow. Some dogs come into your life for a reason.”
“He’s not just a dog,” Emmy whispered.
Leona glanced in the rearview mirror at the pair of them—one girl with too many shadows, one dog with a mouthful of mystery—and nodded.
“No. He’s not.”
That night, Leona opened the cedar chest at the foot of her bed.
Inside were old letters, Tom’s wristwatch, her veterinary school pin, and a faded denim dog collar—Buck’s, the first dog she and Tom had raised together. She ran her fingers over the cracked leather and thought of the way Buck used to wait on the porch for Tom to come home. Rain or shine.
Dogs remembered.
They carried more than we knew.
She looked over at Benny, curled up next to Emmy. And something stirred in her chest—something warm, like hope waking up in its old skin.
Part 6 — “The Dog Who Ate the Diagnosis”
October 10, 1998 – Harper’s Bend, Colorado
The morning after the library and sheriff’s visit brought an uneasy calm, like the kind before a high-country snowfall. Everything felt too still, too quiet—like the land itself was listening.
Leona woke to the sound of birds—not crows, not sparrows, but magpies, chattering sharply from the pines out back. Benny had already slipped off the bed and was posted at the window, ears rigid, nose twitching. Something was out there.
By the time Leona reached the porch, coffee cup in hand, the birds had flown off. Nothing but pine shadows and wind. But Benny kept watching.
She didn’t like it.
Later that morning, Emmy sat at the kitchen table, carefully peeling apart an old photo album with Tom’s faded handwriting in the margins. She had a strange reverence in the way she touched things—like someone who knew what it meant to lose too much too soon.
“Was your husband funny?” she asked.
Leona poured oatmeal into two bowls. “He was. In that dry, quiet way. He had a smirk that made people nervous.”
Emmy nodded. “My mom used to say good people laugh at the edges of things. Not to be rude—just because they know sadness already.”
Leona didn’t answer right away.
Then: “Your mom was smart.”
“She was tired.”
Benny walked past and rested his head in Emmy’s lap. She stroked his ears like she was reading braille.
They had almost finished breakfast when the back screen door creaked.
Leona’s head snapped up.
She hadn’t opened that door.
Benny growled.
Emmy’s eyes widened. “Leona?”
“Stay here,” she said.
She moved fast—quieter than she’d expected for someone who’d once counted creaks in her knees instead of steps. She grabbed the poker from the fireplace and eased toward the mudroom.
The screen door hung open. The latch broken.
Boot prints in the dirt.
And inside the room, the desk drawer had been pulled out and dumped on the floor. Papers everywhere. Old clinic receipts. Property tax bills. A photo of Tom and Buck lay crumpled under a muddy heel mark.
Leona didn’t speak.
She just stared. Took it all in. Her breath stayed even, but her hands trembled.
Then Benny let out a bark so loud it cracked through the silence like thunder.
She ran.
Emmy stood in the living room, back pressed to the wall. She was holding Benny’s collar—trying to calm him, maybe, or just trying not to shake.
“I heard something,” she whispered. “Out the front. I think he was trying to come around.”
Leona scanned the porch. Empty now. But the gate swung loose.
Whoever it was, they knew this place. Knew where the files were kept. Knew to avoid the dog.
Or maybe they didn’t avoid him. Maybe Benny had chased them off.
Leona stepped back inside and bolted the door. Then she did the same to every window and hatch in the house.
She made two calls: the first to Sheriff Munn’s direct line. The second to someone she hadn’t spoken to in over a decade.
By afternoon, Randall Munn stood in the yard, hands on his hips, hat tilted back.
“Could’ve been a scare tactic,” he said, pacing. “But it’s more than that. He’s not just looking for the girl anymore. He’s fishing. Seeing what you’ll do. What you’ll report.”
“He found my house,” Leona said, arms folded. “What’s to stop him from coming back?”
“He’s not dumb enough to try anything while I’m sniffing down his neck,” Randall said. “But I’ll park a cruiser two blocks down. Discreet-like.”
“And the call I asked you to make?” she asked.
Randall nodded. “Foster caseworker in Pueblo confirmed what you suspected. Emmy’s original placement was through a temp agency. Paperwork’s a mess. The foster home where she stayed filed no incident reports, no logs. And the man you saw—Ray Keller—has no formal connection to any department.”
“So he’s rogue.”
Randall gave her a long look. “He’s a predator.”
That evening, after the sheriff left, Leona made hot chocolate from the last tin in the pantry and poured two steaming mugs.
She handed one to Emmy, then sat across from her at the kitchen table.
“There’s a woman named Virginia Wolfe—used to be a child advocacy attorney. Retired now, but smart as a whip. She helped Tom and me settle a farm dispute back in ‘85.”
Emmy cupped the mug with both hands. “You called her?”
“I did. She’s coming up tomorrow. She’s going to help us figure out the next steps. Legally.”
Emmy nodded slowly, as if afraid to hope.
Leona leaned forward. “This isn’t just about keeping you hidden. It’s about making you seen. Heard. You deserve that.”
“What if it’s too late?”
Leona shook her head. “It’s not.”
Benny thumped his tail once in agreement.
That night, Leona couldn’t sleep.
She sat on the couch in the dark, the locket in one hand, a cold tea in the other.
She thought of the letter. Of what it might’ve meant if Benny hadn’t eaten it. Would she have read it right away? Would she have called the hospital, accepted the misdiagnosis, and moved forward?
Or would she have still buried herself in silence, too afraid to admit she wanted to live?
She looked at Benny, curled up near the fire. He raised his head, eyes meeting hers with that same quiet knowing.
“I would’ve given up,” she whispered. “Wouldn’t I?”
Benny didn’t move.
But somehow, she knew the answer.