“Sir,” she stammered, forcing a smile that did not reach her eyes, “you cannot—Titan—this is a school—”
“This is Titan,” Dad said evenly. “He is a certified military working dog. I was told my daughter’s assignment was rejected because his existence sounded fictional.”
Silence.
Even the kids, who never sat still, suddenly froze. The room felt like it had been vacuumed clean of noise, all attention on the doorway, on the dog, on my father.
I buried my hands in my knees at my desk, heart hammering, barely able to breathe. Dad’s eyes flicked to mine for the smallest fraction of a second, and in that glance, I felt steadied. Safe. Not because nothing would happen, but because someone who mattered had stepped into the space with me.
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