The eight months, from Jasmine's side, had begun with resolve. She had stood at the airport with Shadow on the leash and waved until Marcus disappeared past security, and then she had driven home and fed the dog and washed the uniform Marcus had left in the hamper and told herself that love was a kind of duty, too. The first month was manageable. Friends checked in. Denise came by with casserole and took Shadow for long walks on her days off. Jasmine worked her shifts, came home, heated leftovers, fell asleep with her hand hanging off the bed so Shadow could lick her fingers if he needed reassurance.
The second month, the casserole visits slowed. Friends had their own lives. Denise picked up extra nights at the hospital. Shadow's nighttime pacing worsened. Jasmine started sleeping on the couch some nights because the sound of his nails on the hardwood outside the bedroom door made her heart race with a helplessness she could not name. She called Marcus when the satellite link allowed it, and she told him she was fine, they were fine, Shadow missed him, she missed him. She did not tell him about the chewed sofa corner. She did not tell him about the chocolate incident until the credit card statement would have made hiding it impossible, and even then she softened the story into something almost funny.
By the fifth month she was running on caffeine and resentment she was ashamed of. Resentment toward the dog, toward the Army, toward Marcus for being the kind of man who needed to serve, toward herself for saying yes to a life that required her to be stronger than she felt. She googled "senior German Shepherd rehoming" at three in the morning and closed the tab. She googled it again a week later and left it open. She called a trainer who quoted a price she could not afford. She asked a coworker if anyone wanted a dog and the coworker said, gently, that thirteen was a hard age to place.
On a Tuesday in the seventh month, after a twelve-hour shift and a note from the landlord about barking and a voicemail from her mother that began with "I just think you deserve someone who's actually present," Jasmine loaded Shadow into the car. She told herself it was temporary. She told herself the shelter would hold him. She cried in the parking lot for twenty minutes before she could walk him through the door. Linda had been kind. Linda had said, "Are you sure?" Jasmine had nodded because saying no would have required a strength she could not locate in her body that morning. She signed the paper. She did not look back when she left, because looking back would have undone her, and she needed to drive, and she needed to go to work the next day, and she needed, desperately, to believe that she had not just done the unforgivable.
Two weeks after the homecoming, Marcus agreed to meet Jasmine at a park halfway between Denise's house and the apartment. Neutral ground. He brought Shadow. Jasmine arrived in jeans and a sweater, hair down, face carefully composed until she saw Shadow and the composure collapsed. She knelt on the grass without asking permission and held out a hand. Shadow approached, sniffed, then — after a long look at Marcus — allowed her to touch the side of his face. He did not wag. He did not turn away. He simply endured the touch the way a creature endures weather.
"He doesn't trust me," Jasmine said.
"Would you?" Marcus asked.