I opened the driver’s door.
“I stopped hurting him.”
For once, Brock had nothing to say.
I climbed in.
The Shepherd shifted across the bench seat and rested his heavy head against my shoulder. A truck backfired somewhere on the frontage road.
His ears twitched.
His body tensed for half a breath.
Then he looked at me.
I put one hand against his chest.
He exhaled.
So did I.
We drove home with the windows down, the Texas evening warm against our faces, and for the first time since I had found him chained beside the firing line, neither of us needed the world to be quiet in order to feel safe.
