“No. You already made the problem.”
A voice came from the covered benches behind us.
“Brock.”
One of his friends, the one with the cigarette, had finally spoken. He crushed it beneath his boot and stared at the ground.
“Just give her the dog.”
Brock turned on him. “Shut up.”
“You made the bet.”
The second friend nodded once. Not bravely. Not proudly. But enough.
“We all heard it.”
Something broke across Brock’s face. Not remorse. Humiliation.
He had wanted an audience when he thought he was winning.
Now the audience was the reason he could not rewrite what happened.
He walked toward his pickup with his shoulders rigid. I stayed beside the Shepherd. I did not touch the chain until Brock returned because, technically, it still belonged to him. That fact felt ugly in my mouth.
He came back with a plastic folder and a pen.
“You’re going to regret this,” he said.
“Maybe.”
I took the folder.
The adoption paperwork was creased and stained from living in a glove compartment. I read every page. I made sure the identifying information matched the dog in front of me. I made Brock complete the transfer section in full, then had both of his friends sign as witnesses to the exchange he had proposed.
He hated every second of it.
Good.
When the last signature was down, I handed him the pen.
“Key.”
He frowned. “What?”
“The collar key.”
For one awful moment, I thought he might refuse simply because it was the last small piece of control he still possessed.
Then the friend with the cigarette reached into Brock’s range bag, pulled out a tiny brass key, and placed it in my hand.
Brock stared at him.
The friend did not look back.
I knelt beside the Shepherd.
“Easy.”
