Carl asked if he could donate to the department’s K9 medical fund.
I gave him the public information sheet.
That was enough.
By spring, Centennial Park looked nothing like the frozen place where it happened. Grass returned. Families filled the paths. The oak trees carried new leaves.
The department scheduled another outreach event there.
I considered skipping it.
My supervisor told me the decision was mine.
I took Titan.
At first, I watched every patch of ground too closely. Titan, ironically, was relaxed. He trotted at my left leg, accepted scratches from children, and tried to steal a hot dog from a teenager.
Then we reached the edge of the field.
The same cluster of oaks stood ahead.
My hand tightened around the leash.
Titan stopped.
My heart jumped.
He looked toward the trees.
Then he looked up at me.
No growl.
No raised fur.
Just a dog checking in.
“Good boy,” I said.
We kept walking.
Rachel and Lily arrived near noon.
Lily carried the replacement yellow frisbee.
She stayed far from the brush this time.
“Can Titan play?”
I looked at the open grass.
“For five minutes.”
I unclipped the leash.
Titan’s ears lifted.
Lily threw the frisbee.
