Then, barely audible:
“But I don’t think he understood what that dog would think ‘safe’ meant.”
Bo shifted slightly, his paw still resting on the edge of the wallet like it anchored him to something the world couldn’t see.
A white SUV passed.
His whole body tightened.
Waiting.
Still waiting.
And I realized then that no amount of explanation, no matter how true, was going to matter to him more than the last order he believed he’d been given.
Bo didn’t hesitate.
The moment the SUV door opened, something in him snapped back into alertness—not confusion, not hope this time, but recognition. His body went rigid, every muscle drawn tight like a wire pulled too far.
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