By afternoon, Benny had visited three other rooms, collected two stickers, and refused a biscuit he didn’t feel like earning. Yet something about 314 kept tugging him back down the hall like gravity wearing fur.
“You already saw her, pal,” Elena said as he stopped again by the door. His tail flicked once, undecided between duty and longing.
Inside, Maya was napping, her hand curved where his head had been. The air in the room carried a trace of dog—warm and real, like sunlight that remembered how to stay.
Benny settled just outside the door, chin to tile. The volunteer on duty tried to move him, but he didn’t budge. Therapy dogs learn schedules; this one had learned attachment.
When Maya stirred, her first word wasn’t “Mom” or “Nurse.” It was “Benny?”—half question, half plea. The dog’s head lifted instantly, tail brushing the wall in recognition.
Elena peeked in. “He’s on break,” she said with a smile, but Benny was already standing, his version of an answer.
“Then let him clock back in,” Maya whispered, voice small but sure, and Elena had no professional argument left to give.
The nurse opened the door, and Benny padded in like he’d been waiting for permission to keep a promise.
