The movement came from some reserve that no one in the room had anticipated, given the condition he was in. With significant visible effort, Rex raised both front paws from the table and placed them around Alex’s shoulders. Not a reflexive twitch, not an involuntary response to stimulus, but a deliberate act of contact. He pressed himself toward his handler with everything he had remaining, the weight of his chest leaning into Alex’s, his paws gripping the back of the officer’s jacket with gentle but unmistakable intention.
The room became completely still.
In eight years, Rex had never done that.
Alex’s throat closed. He could feel the dog’s heartbeat through the fabric of his uniform, irregular and effortful, working against odds it had no business working against. His eyes filled and he did not try to prevent it.
“It’s okay,” he managed, barely above a whisper. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
