By the end of the week, Benny had become something of a legend. Orderlies paused to scratch his ears, patients asked for him by name, and even the chief physician began scheduling his rounds around the dog’s visits.
“That mutt’s got better bedside manners than half the staff,” someone joked in the cafeteria. No one disagreed.
Elena watched from the hallway as Benny guided a shy boy toward the playroom, tail wagging in quiet rhythm. Yet his eyes, when he passed Room 314, always softened—as if drawn by an invisible string tied somewhere deep inside both him and Maya.
Maya was getting stronger now. She could sit up without the room spinning, could laugh without checking if it was allowed. “Will Benny come when I go home?” she asked one morning.
Elena hesitated. “He visits a lot of kids, sweetheart.” The words felt like stepping on glass. Maya looked down. “But he found me first.”
The nurse smiled sadly. “Yes,” she said. “He did.”
Outside, the therapy schedule showed Benny was supposed to move to another ward next week. Elena quietly decided that maybe the schedule could wait a little longer.
Because sometimes, when healing begins, it’s best not to move the miracle too soon.
