Gently she wraps a red and black vest

across Baby’s back and chest

and under his belly.

He hears the click click of buckles.

It smells different from the fleece coat

Jewel wraps him in when he’s cold.

This coat sits on Baby’s shoulders

in a way Baby has never felt before.

Important.

Everyone in the sunlit room claps and smiles.

Baby can feel how happy they are and

he thinks he should be happy too.

But none of these faces is the one

his soul needs.

None are his Jewel.

The girl clips a leash onto his vest

and says his two favorite words.

“Let’s go!”

But for the first time ever, Baby hesitates.

For the first time he asks, “Where?”

57

Serendipity

I’m sitting in the back seat of our car on the way to Mercy Memorial Hospital with Baby on my lap.

Even through the official emotional support animal vest he’s wearing, I can feel his big, little heart beating against my palm. I love the weight of him on my legs, and his salty smell, the feel of his breath on my hand as he looks, panting, out the window.

I run a hand along his back. His little tail wags. How can my heart be so happy and so sad all at the same time?

“What do you think is in here?” Dylan asks.

He’s been itching to unzip the duffel bag the folks at the Humane Society gave Baby as a going-away present.

I shrug. “I don’t know. Let’s take a look.”

I unzip the bag—a lot smaller than the one of Jewel’s that Baby stayed with in the park all that time—and look inside. A water bowl, bottled water, treats, a blanket, a brush, his medical records, and papers showing he’s an official emotional support animal.

“Boring,” Dylan decides.

“Yes, but things he’ll need for the trip to Idaho,” Mama says from the front seat.

His little bunny toy isn’t in here though. I look all through the bag but can’t find it. “Dang,” I say.

“What’s wrong?” Dylan asks.

“Baby’s stuffed bunny isn’t in here.”

Dylan frowns. “Does he love his bunny the way I love Ted the Shark?”

“Yeah,” I say. “He kind of does.”

Daddy smiles, looking at us in the rearview mirror. “I doubt he’ll even remember, once he sees Jewel.”

Daddy swings the car into the parking lot at Mercy Memorial and parks the car.

“Maybe you should wait here with Baby,” he says to me.

“He’s probably allowed in, though,” I say, “now that he’s her emotional support dog.” At least I hope so.

We walk into the lobby, Baby leading the way.

Mama says to the lady at the front desk, “We’re here to pick up Jewel Knight. She’s being discharged today.”