Part 8: “The Scar on His Leg”
January brought brittle cold and silver light.
The trees stood naked in the wind, their branches clicking together like bones. The sky over Red Hollow Road was white-gray most mornings, and the porch creaked under the weight of snow boots and the soft pads of paws.
Shadow had slowed some. Not by much, but enough that Laurel noticed.
He still walked Sadie to the bus. Still stood sentry near the fence while she played in the yard. Still lifted his head when her laughter spilled out of the house like music.
But his back legs stiffened when he got up from lying down. His breath was a little louder after longer walks. And one morning, when Laurel bent to brush snow off his coat, she saw it:
A thick white scar across the back of his right leg.
She waited until Sadie was at school.
Then she called Dr. Park—the mobile vet who serviced the county—and asked if he could make a stop.
“He’s older,” she said. “And maybe hurting. But he won’t let anyone see it. Except her.”
“Most dogs like that don’t show pain,” Dr. Park said. “They don’t know how to complain. They just endure.”
Dr. Park arrived in a van that looked more like a food truck than a clinic, his face pink from the cold, hair tied back in a loose knot. Shadow didn’t growl when he stepped into the kitchen—just watched him with the same deep, unblinking stare that he gave the wind, the woods, the mailbox.
“Let’s take a look at you, soldier,” Dr. Park murmured.
Laurel held Shadow’s collar. The dog stayed still.
When Dr. Park reached the scar, he paused.
“This wasn’t from age,” he said gently. “This was from something sharp. A wire fence maybe. Barbed. Months ago, maybe longer.”
Laurel blinked. “He’s never limped. Not once.”
Dr. Park looked up. “No, but I bet he ran. Hard. Far. After something broke.”
That night, Laurel told Sadie about the vet’s visit.
“He’s okay,” she reassured. “Just a little slower than he used to be.”
Sadie was quiet for a long moment. Then she reached into her backpack and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
“I drew this at school,” she said, handing it over.
It was a picture of Shadow standing between two figures: one small, one grown, both smiling. The background was a storm. Lightning in crayon zigzags. Wind curling around the dog like a cape.
“He doesn’t run from things,” Sadie said. “He runs toward them.”
Laurel stared at the drawing and nodded.
“You’re exactly right.”
Over the next few weeks, Sadie started sleeping on the floor beside Shadow’s bed more and more.
“I don’t want him to be lonely,” she said.
“He’s not,” Laurel said. “He’s yours.”
But she let it happen.
She made up a pallet with old quilts and pillows, and every morning found the girl curled into the curve of the dog’s body like a comma at the end of a long sentence.
And Shadow? He never stirred until Sadie did.
One icy afternoon in February, a letter came from the county. Not about custody this time. Not about inspections or forms or signatures.
Just a note.
“Re: Guardian Report Closure – Jenkins, Sadie”
Status: Resolved. No further follow-up required.
Laurel read it twice.
Then pinned it to the fridge under a magnet shaped like a bone.
That night, she cooked Elsie’s favorite lentil stew and served it with fresh cornbread and honey.
Sadie asked for seconds. Shadow got extra scraps.
And as they sat around the table, Laurel realized the strangest thing:
There wasn’t a single sound in the house she didn’t know by heart.
No silence she feared anymore.
Just love, and the shuffle of paws beneath the table.