“Is he coming?” he asked quietly.
Claire hesitated.
“I’m not sure—”
The officer interrupted.
“If it’s up to me, yes.”
Mason clenched his jaw.
“If he doesn’t come, I won’t go.”
No one laughed.
They made space in the vehicle.
Rex climbed in.
Mason pressed against his side, burying his hand in the dog’s fur.
For the first time anyone could remember, he fell asleep before night.
Real sleep.
Safe sleep.
The days after were confusing.
Doctors. Questions. Clean sheets. Gentle voices saying it wasn’t his fault.
They found old fractures, scars, years of hunger.
They also learned Mason’s father, Daniel, spent weeks away hauling cattle across the country. Whether he hadn’t known or couldn’t bear to know was harder to say.
When Daniel returned and discovered everything — the arrest, the investigation, his son under protection — he collapsed at the station.
He asked to see Mason.
Mason refused.
At first.
Claire didn’t force him.
Rex never left his side.
The dog slept beside his bed, waited outside doors, and stood whenever voices got too loud.
The specialists called it remarkable.
Mason didn’t know that word.
He only knew this: when Rex was nearby, the air hurt less.