Chapter 2 – A Mysterious Time Skip
"Can I pet your dog?"
Slender fingers clenched in silky fur as their owner turned to regard the chubby-cheeked boy staring up at her with naked hope in eyes so blue they edged toward neon.
Before Stevie could answer, the kid (who was probably around ten or eleven, give or take a year, and thus the same general age as her little sister) babbled, "My dad said I should always ask before I pet anyone's dog, cuz it's really rude and might be dangerous not to. Plus, he also said if the dog's wearing a vest, then it's extra important to ask, cuz that might be a service dog or a working dog, and they shouldn't be distracted while they're on duty. It's ok if you say no. He just looks really soft and nice. What's his name? And yours? I'm Carl, by the way."
As she waited out the babbled explanation, a slow smile spread on Stevie's scarred face, which didn't seem to scare or disgust the kid at all. (It was always a good sign when people were either kind or uncaring enough not to recoil from the sight of her.) Eventually, when she could finally get a word in, the teen declared, "It's nice to meet you, Carl. I'm Stevie, and this-" she bumped her hip lightly against the patient beast sitting faithfully beside her, his big blocky head level with her sternum "-is Bruno. Thanks for asking about petting him. I'd prefer you didn't right now, but you can shake hands if you want."
"Wow, really?!" Carl gushed, like a dog that could shake on command was a total novelty. The boy obviously didn't grasp just how smart and capable and impeccably trained service dogs and working dogs really were.
"Really," Stevie chuckled. "Hold out a hand palm-up and say, 'Howdy, pal.'"
Carl obeyed and giggled delightedly when Bruno deigned to slap a meaty paw into the waiting hand, which was dwarfed to a comically adorable degree.
Bruno knew the verbal command as well as the physical gesture, and he also knew to add a happy whuf as his limb was pumped up and down in the human greeting.
When the handshake ended, Carl beamed up at her and declared, "So cool. I've always wanted a dog, but Mom doesn't like them. She said maybe when I'm older."
Stevie nodded, agreeing, "A dog is a lot of responsibility. If you're serious about wanting one, then you can try proving how responsible you are by volunteering at a local shelter or rescue. That'll show your mom that you're really dedicated to taking care of a pet so that she doesn't end up doing it for you."
"Carl!" Speak of the devil. A slender brunet jogged around the closest corner linking one unremarkable residential small-town street to another. Her fixed smile read bland but tense even as she reached the boy's side and slung her arm around his small shoulders, unsubtly territorial in the way she placed her body between him and Stevie after barely even glancing at the teen. "You can't run off like that, sweetheart," cooed the woman, voice sickly sweet even with its note of scolding. "Always stay where I can see you."
"Sorry, Mom," Carl answered, though he didn't cringe away from her or seem at all scared or cowed by her displeasure.
That meant she probably wasn't an abuser, but Stevie would remain vigilant.
No matter what any dumbass shrink said about "unhealthy" coping mechanisms.
"This is Stevie," the boy declared, "And Bruno. He's a service dog. Right?" After receiving a nod of confirmation, Carl continued, "He's awesome."
"Awesome," the woman repeated, skepticism dripping from every syllable as she eyed the large dog up and down and barely held back an outright sneer. "Honey," she simpered, "You're obviously not disabled, and you can't just put a vest on any old mutt and call it a service dog. Is it even safe around kids?"
Arching a slender eyebrow up into The fuck did you just say to me? territory, Stevie drawled, "The Americans with Disabilities Act entitles you to ask and compels me to answer only two questions about my service dog. 'Is the dog a service animal required because of a disability?' and 'What work or task has the dog been trained to perform?' The answer to the first question is yes, I suffer from seizures and mobility issues as the result of a traumatic brain injury." Kind of enjoying the dawning horror and embarrassment on the woman's face as she finally deigned to look Stevie in hers, the teen paused long enough to gesture a bit theatrically to the vicious scarring that almost circled her left eye and slashed across said eye from her hair line down to her jawline, the shape reminiscent of a cent symbol with an especially long and wonky tail—because not every plucky protagonist could have a brush with death and end up branded with something as cool and symbolically significant as a lightning bolt to show for the ordeal.
"The answer to the second question," Stevie continued, "Is that Bruno is trained to alert me when he senses I'm about to have a seizure." Thankfully, she was down from several each day to maybe two a month; time heals all wounds, even scrambled gray matter, and a finely calibrated cocktail of anticonvulsants was certainly doing its part. "He breaks my fall if I don't lie down in time. He lies next to me to try to keep me from thrashing too much and hurting myself during an episode. He barks to alert my mother or sister or someone else that I need help. He helps me walk and has been a large factor in helping me relearn to walk in the first place. Thanks to him, I'm much steadier on my feet than I used to be, and I don't have to worry as much about falling. I can lean against him to keep my balance, and if I do happen to fall, I can lean my entire body weight on him to stand back up. Does that satisfy your curiosity, ma'am?"
Pinched face almost colorless with some combination of humiliation and rage, the woman sniffed and managed to stubbornly insist, "As long as he's safe around kids."
Stevie nodded, explaining, "He loves kids, and despite his size, he's very gentle with them." She sighed, figuring she could throw the uptight witch a bone, especially since she was probably now a close neighbor and since Carl (who looked utterly mortified by his mother's ridiculous shit-fit) probably went to the school Stevie's little sister was due to start at the following week. (Heck, they were probably even in the same grade and could end up in the same class, and the woman was definitely coming across as a vindictive PTA harpy.) "He has extensive professional training, and I work with him daily to reinforce it. I doubt there's a safer or better trained animal in the entire county."
The woman huffed imperiously and then breezed past her ridiculous faux pas, announcing, "Well, we need to be getting home. Come on, Carl." She turned without further comment, dragging her kid with her.
He looked over his shoulder for a moment, expression solemn as he mouthed, Sorry.
Stevie had the impression that the poor boy was constantly being embarrassed by and having to apologize for his mother's bad behavior. So, the teen just grinned and winked at him and got a weak smile in return before the ornery woman (who hadn't bothered to introduce herself) removed him from sight. Stevie sighed and resumed her own walk, softly singing, "It's a beautiful day in this neighborhood."
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Are you intrigued yet? Canon events begin next chapter! I'll probably post next week and then slow down a bit just as I get you hooked on monkey phonics. Review please :)