Mama comes in and tells me to “have a good day,” but she raises her eyebrows all the way up her forehead and gives me another one of her looks, whispering so only I can hear, “Just remember all the techniques we’ve been going over when your mind starts wandering or you’re having trouble staying focused.”

“I know, Mama.” Deep accordion breaths, in and out. Count to seven. Name five things I can observe around me in the moment. We’ve been over this so many times.

After Mama leaves, it’s just Ms. Avery and me in the room alone. She is drinking coffee at her desk, working on something. She doesn’t say anything to me; sometimes I think she doesn’t really believe I have an LD and she still just thinks I’m a lazy student, or worse, a troublemaker.

I look at the clock on the wall above the door; I still have ten minutes before anyone should be arriving, so I take my regular notebook out of my backpack. I can’t be distracted if I’m not supposed to be doing anything in the first place.

I don’t have my big box of colored pencils or my S. Hawkins sketchbook with me, but I do have my small set of nice drawing pencils Gramps gave me. I won’t be able to capture all the shades of Dewey’s fur, or her different-colored eyes, but I start to draw her anyway—the graphite makes smooth, creamy gray marks on the page.

I close my eyes and imagine opening the dog kennel at the shelter to let Dewey out. In my mind I can even see us playing together in the backyard, her walking on the trails with me, sleeping in my bed at night. I just know, somehow, that Dewey belongs with me—that I belong with her.

I draw out each scene in panels, just like I would draw in my graphic novel. Except in the last drawing, I add a collar and a name tag in the shape of a bone. Inside the bone I write in my very best handwriting:

DEWEY

I hear some voices out in the hall, and that’s when Ms. Avery stands up and goes to the classroom door. I hear her say good morning to someone, and I know I’ll have to hurry up if I want to finish my drawings by the time class begins. Just then, the first of the students begin to enter the classroom—the walkers, I think. Once the bus riders are in, I’ll have to stop. I keep my head down in my sketchbook and work fast to touch up my series of drawings.