One of the stranger things about independence is how quickly Meghan has gotten used to it. From complete dependence to mostly complete independence has been a long long journey, and now that she’s achieved it, she’s already begun to take it for granted. She equates it to when she was sixteen and champing at the bit to get her driver’s license. It seemed that it would take forever, and the dream of being in the driver’s seat, going when and where she wanted, was such a prize that she was certain she’d always be excited about it. But within weeks of getting the coveted prize, she was annoyed to be the designated errand runner. Within a month, driving was just something she did. The specialness of automotive freedom had subsided, turning into an ordinary activity. And now the routine of getting ready for work, waiting for the city bus with its handicap accessibility, rolling into the lobby of the building, and grabbing a coffee for the ride up in the elevator had gone from magic to mundane—except for Shark, who made this independence possible. She would never take him for granted. “Shark, button.” The dog stands on his hind legs and noses the button for her floor. When they first started this, he hit virtually every button, but now, somehow, he’s refined his skill to hitting only one or two incorrect floors, and half the time he’s spot-on. When others get into the elevator at the same time, she’s noticed that no one reaches for the elevator buttons until Shark does; she’s sure they’re admiring his skills. One passenger always says, Thanks, buddy, when Shark happens to hit her number.
Meghan’s cell phone dings with a text alert. Rosie. Call when u get a chance. Big news, the message says.
She taps in a quick Will do but doesn’t send it. The elevator has reached her floor.
She’s got a few minutes before her first meeting of the morning, so she thumbs Rosie’s number. Rosie isn’t one of those dramatic types who uses “big news” willy-nilly. If she’s got news, it’s got to be interesting.
Rosie answers on the first ring. “Meghan, hey. I didn’t think you’d call so quick.”
“I’ve got a minute before I have to meet with some folks, so give me the short version.” She hopes that she doesn’t sound rude, but Rosie is Irish enough to have the storytelling gene. No story worth telling is worth telling briefly.
“Okay. Are you ready for this?”
“What?”
“Meghan, I got a dog.”
“Oh, Rosie, that’s so great.” If anyone deserves to have a dog of her own, it’s Rosie. “What kind?”
“God only knows.”
“Good breed, I hear.”
“Check your texts; I just sent you a picture.”
Meghan does and laughs out loud at the photo of this giant gray dog. “How many hands is he?”
“Ha-ha. Let’s just say I don’t have to bend over to pet him.”
“Where did he come from?” She’s expecting a story of a rescue, a visit to a shelter.
“He just showed up. I think he’s been hanging around, because I’ve seen these giant paw prints, but I thought they might be a coyote’s. Last night, in the middle of a rainstorm, there he was, asking to come in, like he freakin’ owns the place. Plopped down on the rug in front of the woodstove and, booya, that was that. Completely at home.” Rosie takes a breath. “It’s like he is just meant to be with me.”
“What are you calling him?”
“Shadow. Mostly because he sticks to me like my own shadow. Plus, he’s grayish, so it suits him.”
“I bet you’re going to have a blast with him. Rosie, I couldn’t be happier for you.”
“Well, getting out of prison was pretty much my happiest moment, but this is a close second. He’s already done two things for me.”
“What’s that?”
“Given me someone to talk to, and today, when the workmen arrive, I won’t feel quite so vulnerable.”
“You feel that way?”
“All the time.”
“I didn’t know.”
“It’s fine. Really.”
“You have PTSD.”
“No. I’m just a little shy. Shadow is going to help me get over myself.”
A head pops into the doorway of Meghan’s office; it’s Bob Watson, signaling that their nine o’clock meeting is about to begin. She holds up a finger. “How’s the house coming?”
“Inch by inch. Every step forward requires two steps backward. Now Tucker’s insisting that the sills—you know, the timbers that the house rests on—have to be analyzed for rot. Could mean jacking the house up and having new sills installed. I don’t know if I can stay in the house if that happens. It’s hard enough without hot water.…”
“Still?”
“Yeah, don’t ask. Anyway, I’m not complaining, I’m grateful to be here and not you know where.”
“Me, too.”
“I’d love for you to see the place. When it’s done, of course.”
“Can’t wait. Hey, sorry, they’re waving me into the meeting.”
“Go. Love you.”
“Me, too.”