A dog believes in you on your worst day.
A dog doesn’t care what the mirror says, or what the chart says, or how much hair is left on your pillow.
Eli laid back slowly.
I tucked the blanket around his legs the way I’d seen nurses do a hundred times.
Bucket stood guard beside the bed.
“Can he stay?” Eli whispered.
I looked at the door.
Looked at the hallway.
Looked back at him.
“For five minutes,” I said.
He smiled with his eyes half closed.
“Tell him good boy.”
I patted the side of the bucket.
“Good boy, Bucket.”
Eli fell asleep before I finished the sentence.
Just like that.
Not cured.
Not safe.
Not suddenly free of all the things a seven-year-old should never have to carry.
But asleep.
Peaceful.
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