Part 7 – Two Videos, One Truth
By the end of that week, my name had become a tiny, flickering symbol for whatever people wanted to fight about.
On one side, there were those who shared the first video and called me careless, cruel, reckless.
On the other side, people posted the security footage of Brake saving my wallet and wrote long comments about loyalty and second chances.
Most of them still didn’t know anything about me beyond what they could freeze-frame and screenshot.
They didn’t know about Eli’s inhaler or the way my back ached after every shift or how long it had been since I’d been able to afford a real vacation.
They knew “parking lot lady” and “dangerous dog case,” and that was more than enough for most of them.
On the bright side, some of the heat shifted from me to the question of what to do with Brake.
Was he a “dangerous dog” or a misunderstood hero?
People argued using words like “liability” and “angel” in the same sentence.
“If this dog bit someone once, what’s to stop him from doing it again?” one commenter wrote.
“He clearly has good instincts,” someone replied. “Maybe he bit the wrong person for the right reason.”
The thread spiraled into arguments about animal control, personal responsibility, and whether any creature should pay with its life for one bad moment.
I learned to stop reading after a few minutes because my heart could only take so much whiplash.
But Brooke didn’t.
She screenshot everything.
“There are people on your side now,” she said one afternoon as we sat at my small kitchen table.
Maddie and Eli were constructing a fort in the living room out of cushions and blankets.
Brake lay in the center like a sleepy dragon guarding treasure.
“People I’ve never met,” I said.
“Who might share my story today and forget I exist by tomorrow.”
“Maybe,” she allowed.
“But look, there’s a petition now. A group wants the city to change how they label dogs with bite histories. They’re using Brake as an example of why context matters.”
I rubbed my temples.
“Great,” I said.
“So now my dog is trending as a debate topic. That makes me feel much better.”
She winced.
“Sorry. I know it’s a lot. I just… I feel like I owe you. I shared that first video before I realized who was in it. I helped paint you as the villain, even if it was just one click.”
I looked at her, at the way her shoulders hunched like she was bracing for a slap.
Part of me wanted to be angry.
Another part was just tired of being angry at anything that wasn’t directly trying to hurt me.
“You were scared for the dog,” I said.
“Somebody posted something emotional, and you reacted. I’ve done that too, just in smaller ways. The whole world’s a reflex lately.”
She blinked, surprised by the absence of blame.
“Still,” she murmured, “I’m sorry.”
Before I could answer, my phone buzzed.
It was an email from a local news station.
“We’re doing a segment on the recent ‘dangerous dog’ case and the viral videos surrounding it,” it read.
“We’d love to give you an opportunity to share your side of the story. Our viewers respond well to personal narratives and community issues. Are you open to an on-camera interview?”
I stared at the screen, pulse loud in my ears.
“It’s from Channel Seven,” I said.
“They want me to go on TV.”
Brooke’s eyes widened.
“You should do it,” she said quickly.
“This is your chance to tell the whole story, not just the twelve-second versions.”
“Or,” I countered, “it could be another version of the same thing. They’ll cut it down, add dramatic music, throw in some B-roll of Brake looking soulful, and people will still see what they want to see.”
“You don’t trust anyone anymore,” she said softly.
“I don’t blame you. But if you don’t speak, other people will keep telling your story for you.”
That night, after Eli went to bed, I sat on the couch with Brake’s head in my lap and the email open on my phone.
My thumb hovered over the reply button.
Every possible outcome played in my mind—the supportive messages, the cruel ones, the way my face might end up in memes or inspirational posts depending on what moment they froze.
“Do you think I should do it?” I asked Brake.
He twisted slightly so he could look up at me, eyes deep and calm.
He didn’t offer advice.
He just existed, steady and breathing, like an anchor.
In the end, I typed a short reply.
“Thank you for reaching out. This situation is ongoing and involves a legal review. I’m not comfortable doing an interview at this time.”
If I was going to speak, it would be in that hearing room, not under studio lights.
I hit send and set the phone face down.
The next morning, another letter arrived from the property management company.
Same tone, same formal phrases, but this time it had a date.
“Unless and until the animal in question is legally declared safe, you are required to remove said animal from the premises by the last day of the month. Failure to do so may result in eviction proceedings.”
Brooke read it twice.
“They’re serious,” she said.
Her voice shook with anger on my behalf.
“You don’t have anywhere else to go.”
“I know,” I said.
“I can’t pay a pet deposit somewhere new, not right now. And even if I could, all anyone has to do is Google my name and this whole mess comes up.”
“So either the hearing goes your way,” she said slowly, “or you have to choose between your home and your dog.”
Between a roof and a heartbeat.
Between walls and a wet nose nudging my hand whenever my chest felt tight.
“I’m not leaving him,” I said.
The words came out solid and cold.
“If they force a choice, then I’ll deal with that when it comes. But I’m not walking him back into a cage myself.”
Two days before the hearing, Daniels called.
“We’ve reviewed all the documents,” he said.
“The file, the videos, Dr. Harris’s report, the note from Mr. Greene. It’s a lot. This is not going to be an easy call for the panel.”
“What does that mean in regular-people language?” I asked.
“It means I’ll be recommending that Brake stay with you under certain conditions,” he said.
Regular walks, training sessions, proof of vaccinations, maybe a muzzle in crowded public spaces at first.
It wasn’t perfect.
But it was life.
“There’s one more thing,” he added.
“The weather service is talking about a storm moving in tomorrow night. Could get nasty—flooding, downed lines. Keep your phone charged. And keep Brake on a leash if you go out. Even good dogs can panic in bad weather.”
After we hung up, I peeked out the window.
The sky was already gathering clouds like it was collecting arguments.
The wind had that restless edge that says, “Pay attention.”
“Storm’s coming,” I told Eli.
“Maybe we’ll make popcorn, watch a movie, hunker down.”
He nodded, running a hand along Brake’s back.
“Storms are scary,” he said.
“Good thing we have our own lightning rod.”
Brake wagged his tail once, then curled up at Eli’s feet like he’d just accepted a new job he’d been training for his whole life.
Part 8 – The Night Everything Broke Loose
The storm didn’t arrive with a single dramatic strike.
It crept in like a rumor, starting with a light drizzle, then wind, then a slow, relentless drum of rain that built until the gutters gave up trying.
By early evening, the parking lot outside our building looked like a shallow, angry river.
I tried to pretend it was a normal night.
I made popcorn that left greasy streaks on our fingers.
We watched an old animated movie with the volume turned up to drown out the thunder.
Every time a loud crack rattled the windows, Eli flinched and pressed his toes into Brake’s side.
“He’s fine,” I kept telling him.
“We’re inside. The building is solid. The lightning is far away.”
But solid is a relative term when you can feel the walls vibrate.
Our lights flickered once, twice, then steadied.
Somewhere downstairs, someone shouted about a leaking window.
Around seven, there was a knock on the door, frantic and fast.
Brake jumped up, ears sharp, body tense but not aggressive.
I opened the door to find Brooke on the other side, hair soaked, jacket half-zipped, eyes wide.
“Is Maddie here?” she demanded.
“She was supposed to walk straight home from her dance class, but she’s not here. Her phone is going straight to voicemail. I’ve checked all the usual spots.”
Adrenaline cleared my storm-fogged brain in an instant.
“She’s not here,” I said.
“But we can help you look.”
Brooke shook her head, rain spraying off her hair.
“I didn’t want to drag you into this,” she said.
“But I’m running out of options, and the roads are a mess. The police are swamped with calls already. They said to wait another hour before filing a report.”
I didn’t need to imagine the pictures running through her mind; they were already flashing through mine.
A small girl alone in rising water, a slick sidewalk, a car that didn’t see her in the sheets of rain.
“I’m coming,” I said.
I grabbed my jacket from the chair and zipped it up.
Eli stepped forward. “I can help,” he said.
“Absolutely not,” I said.
“You’re staying here. If Maddie comes back on her own, someone needs to be here to let her in.”
He opened his mouth to argue, then closed it when he saw my face.
“I’ll stay with him,” he said, jerking his chin toward Brake.
“He doesn’t like storms either.”
Brake paced between us as if trying to decide which human needed him more.
I clipped his leash on almost without thinking.
“We might need him,” I told Brooke.
“He’s better at finding things than I am.”
We stepped into the storm.
Rain hit us sideways, sharp and cold, soaking through our clothes in seconds.
The parking lot lights cast everything in a weird yellow glow, turning the water into sheets of liquid metal.
“Where was she last seen?” I shouted over the wind.
“Her class is in that strip mall two blocks over by the grocery store,” Brooke yelled back.
“She usually cuts across the back lot because it’s faster.”
The same back lot where I’d met Brake.
I glanced down at him.
His ears were flat, but he pulled forward on the leash, nose working overtime.
We moved as quickly as we dared, shoes slipping on the slick sidewalk.
Branches littered the ground like broken ribs.
Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed, then faded under the roar of the rain.
At the edge of the grocery store parking lot, the flooding was worse.
Shopping carts floated like silver skeletons in the deeper puddles.
One of the big light poles leaned at a worrying angle, wires humming.
“Careful,” I said, grabbing Brooke’s arm.
“If that goes down, we’re getting a lot more than wet.”
Brake whined, straining toward the far corner of the lot.
I could barely see more than a few yards ahead; the rain was a curtain.
But his body language changed—ears forward, tail stiff, every muscle focused.
“You smell her?” I yelled.
It was a stupid question.
He surged forward in answer.
We followed him past a row of parked cars, water splashing up to our shins.
Near the drainage ditch at the back, the water was deeper, swirling around a half-clogged grate.
I heard a thin, choked sound and wasn’t sure if it was the wind or something else.
Then lightning cracked, lighting up the lot like daylight for one terrifying second.
In that flash, I saw her.
Maddie was pinned against the chain-link fence, one leg caught under a tangled nest of shopping carts that the flood had pushed together.
Water rushed around her waist, pulling at her jacket, threatening to drag her down into the ditch.
Her fingers clutched the fence so hard her knuckles looked like they might burst through her skin.
“Mom!” she screamed when she saw Brooke.
The sound of her voice sliced through the rain.
Brooke lunged forward, but I grabbed her arm again.
“Wait!” I shouted.
“The current is strongest right there. You’ll go down with her.”
“I don’t care!” she yelled back, tears mixing with the rain.
“That’s my kid.”
Before either of us could act, Brake made his choice.
He yanked the leash out of my hand, splashing into the brown, churning water without hesitation.
He fought his way to Maddie, planting his paws against the sliding carts, body forming a brace between her and the worst of the current.
“Brake!” I screamed.
But he was already in position, chest deep, muscles shaking.
He pressed his body against her legs, lending her a solid surface to lean into instead of the shifting metal.
A car pulled up at the edge of the lot, headlights cutting through the downpour.
A teenager in a hooded sweatshirt jumped out, phone in hand, shouting something about calling for help.
Then, almost reflexively, he started recording.
“Hold on,” I yelled to Maddie.
“We’re coming.”
Brooke and I waded into the water at a safer angle, using parked cars to block some of the force.
My feet went numb almost instantly, but adrenaline pushed me forward.
We reached the tangle of carts and began yanking them away, metal screeching.
“Don’t let go of the fence!” Brooke shouted to her daughter.
“Keep holding on.”
Brake stayed pressed against her, grunting softly with effort.
Every time the water surged, he leaned into it, power in his shoulders keeping her from being swept sideways.
One cart broke free; then another.
Finally, there was enough space for Maddie to wrench her leg loose.
She stumbled toward us, sobbing.
We grabbed her under the arms and dragged her back toward the shallower water.
Brake turned with us, still acting as a furry barrier between the girl and the current until we were safely on higher ground.
When we collapsed onto the wet asphalt, all three of us shaking, the teenager lowered his phone.
“Whoa,” he said, breathing hard.
“That dog just saved her. I got all of it.”
I wanted to tell him to delete it.
To let us have this moment without turning it into content.
But then I looked at Brooke, cradling her daughter, tears streaming down her face, and I thought about Howard, alone in his bed with only a photo to prove that Brake had ever existed.
“Send it to me,” I said, my voice hoarse.
“If people are going to watch my life in clips, they might as well see this one too.”
The lights flickered above us, threatening to go out.
Somewhere in the distance, another siren wailed.
The storm hadn’t stopped just because we’d had our own little disaster.
Brake shook himself, water spraying in a messy halo.
Then he trotted over and pressed his head into my chest, as if to say, “This is what I do. You should know that by now.”