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  “Perhaps seeing this sweet girl will cheer her up.”

  Mattie threw her arms around her mother’s legs. Eunice straightened the prayer kapp on top of her youngest’s head, and then cautioned her, “Mattie, you mind your manners and don’t be too loud.”

  “I’ll whisper,” Mattie said in a hushed tone.

  “And no running around. Sarah is sick.”

  “Okay.” Mattie took exaggerated, hushed steps toward the front door. Hannah claimed Mattie’s hand once they were out on the porch. Sarah’s home was two houses down from theirs. Each home fronted the county road, though the houses actually were set back a bit. It took less than ten minutes to walk there. Long enough for Mattie to expend the majority of her energy skipping along, pausing occasionally to pull a few flowers, and singing the words of two hymns she’d managed to mash together—“Precious Memories” and “Surely Goodness and Mercy.” The result sounded like, “memries and GOOD nights.”

  “Remember, Mattie. Not too loud.”

  “Sshhhh.” Mattie placed a finger across her lips and smiled up at Hannah mischievously.

  “And no bouncing about.”

  “Okay, Hannah.”

  They walked up the porch steps, and Hannah knocked lightly on the door. Sarah didn’t answer—her husband did.

  “Afternoon, Reuben.”

  The older man nodded as he opened the door wide for her to pass through. He looked exhausted, but Hannah wondered if that was from the emotional strain more than the physical task of looking after his wife.

  Squatting down, he touched Mattie’s nose. “How are you today, little Mattie?”

  “I’m qui-et.” She held out the wildflowers she’d pulled, a little marsh marigold with bright yellow flowers. It grew in the ditch beside the road. The single blue Jacob’s Ladder she’d pulled from Eunice’s garden.

  Mattie had squeezed the stems so hard, the flowers drooped somewhat, but Reuben acted as if he’d just been handed a prize heifer.

  “For me?”

  “Nein! For Sa-rah.” Mattie continued to speak in a hushed voice that could probably be heard throughout the entire house.

  “Is she sleeping?” Hannah handed him the casserole carrier.

  “She was, but woke up a few minutes ago. I know she’d love to see both of you. I’ll just set this . . .”

  “Soup—chicken and vegetable.”

  “In the kitchen.” He peeked inside. “Some of your mamm’s fresh bread too. Tell her danki for us.”

  “I will.”

  Reuben limped off toward the kitchen. He’d hurt his leg a few years ago while farming the southern portion of his field. Hannah could still remember Sarah’s look of desperation as she ran down the road, crying for help. This was before the cancer had changed their lives. At the time, Hannah wondered what that would be like—to love someone so much that their pain was yours. But she realized as she watched Reuben limp into the kitchen that theirs was a mutual devotion. He was suffering with Sarah’s illness as much as she was.

  Clasping Mattie’s hand, Hannah led her back to Sarah’s room. Sarah offered them a wan smile as they paused in the doorway. She raised a hand and motioned them in. She was a few years older than Hannah’s mother, but she looked as if she’d aged considerably since the chemo had begun. Today she was sitting up in her bed, and though the afternoon was warm, she had the quilt on her bed tucked snugly around her thin frame. Hannah noticed the quilt was the star pattern, one she had first learned when quilting beside her mamm and Sarah.

  Her kapp was on the nightstand beside her, and the sunlight streaming through the window reflected off her bald head.

  “Hey, Mattie.”

  “Sarah!” Mattie started for Sarah’s bed, but Hannah pulled her back.

  “Sarah’s sick today, Mattie. No climbing on the bed.”

  Mattie stuck out her bottom lip. Then Sarah patted the side of her bed, and Mattie’s pucker turned into a smile.

  “Mattie is qui-et, Sarah.”

  “You are quiet.”

  “We brought flower soup!”

  Sarah raised an eyebrow at Hannah, who shook her head.

  “Flower soup? That sounds yummy.”

  “Nein! Flowers and soup.” Mattie scooted forward and placed her small hand on top of Sarah’s head, her expression turning to a scowl.

  “Don’t worry, my child. My head will be covered with gray hair again before the fall corn is ready to harvest.”

  Reuben walked into the room carrying a tray. On it was a cup of the soup, a slice of the fresh bread, and Mattie’s flowers in a juice cup.

  “Now look at this. I’m going to get spoiled if you all keep this up.”

  Mattie helped her with the napkin, patting it across Sarah’s chest and moving the flowers closer to the soup bowl, in case she hadn’t seen them.

  “Very pretty, Mattie.”

  “Look what I found, Mattie.” Reuben held up a basket of small wooden toys.

  Mattie clapped her hands and hopped to the floor beside the bed, settling on the crocheted rag rug. All of her attention turned to pulling the wooden animals—a horse, a cow, a dog, even a sheep—from the basket and setting them up in a line.

  Sarah continued to watch her, but the smile she’d put on for Mattie had disappeared. Sarah was one of the most positive people Hannah knew, but on chemo days, it seemed as if she couldn’t quite find the energy to summon up her usually sunny self. It was as if she was waging a war on the inside, a war that took a good amount of her energy and nearly all of her attention. The lines in her face were etched more deeply, and the smile only came with an obvious effort.

  “Bad treatment?” Hannah pulled a straight-back chair closer to the side of the bed and sat on it.

  “All the treatments are gut. They kill the bad cells and allow the ones I need to flourish.”

  Hannah nodded but didn’t trust her voice. Her throat felt suddenly tight, and tears caused her vision to blur. Why did life have to be so painful? And why did such terrible things happen to people she loved?

  “Don’t be crying for me, Hannah. The doctors are doing their best, and Gotte has a plan for my life. Now help me with this soup.”

  So she did, and Sarah made a valiant attempt, eating nearly half of the broth and vegetables. How could she gain her strength back if she didn’t eat? How could such a small amount of broth be enough nourishment?

  “Tell Eunice the vegetables have a nice flavor.” She rested her head against the pillow. Hannah removed the tray and set it on the small table next to the bed.

  Reuben had disappeared after bringing in the food. She guessed he didn’t often have a chance to leave Sarah’s side. Suddenly she was glad they’d come. If she could ease his burden at all, then it was worth the small effort to visit. Sarah had closed her eyes, but she reached over and laid her hand on top of Hannah’s.

  “Tell me what is new at the Village.”

  So Hannah told her about the pink, purple, and white flowers that had been planted, the line of spring print calico fabrics Carol had purchased for the quilt shop, and the details of her wedding plans. Finally she mentioned the recent stir over Ryan Duvall.

  Sarah opened her eyes and studied Hannah. “Are you worried about him?”

  “Nein, but I am worried about Martha.”

  “Martha was always a quiet one. You don’t have to concern yourself over her, though. All children go through a rumspringa. Martha is only going through hers a little later than others.”

  “And what of Ryan?”

  Sarah waved away her concern. “The Englisch are different from us. Martha will realize that in time.”

  But would she realize it before Ryan broke her heart? Hannah didn’t ask that question. Mattie was now lying on the carpet, bouncing the animals over Hannah’s feet. Soon she would tire of the game and be ready to go.

  Instead of belaboring the problem with Martha and Ryan, Hannah changed the subject. “Nearly all of the advance preparations for the race are done.”
/>   “The race for cancer?”

  “Ya. The fundraising supports research for a cure and better treatments. Many Englisch doctors are working on it. Perhaps soon there will be a treatment that is not so difficult.”

  Sarah didn’t answer that, only opened her eyes to stare out the window.

  “Everyone calls it a Race for a Cure, and that’s what the posters say as well. Amber ordered quite a lot of ribbon of the different colors that represent different cancers. We’re to put it around the trees at the starting line, along the path, and at the finish line. Already we’ve had more people sign up than last year when it was held downtown.”

  “That’s gut.”

  “It is, Sarah. We’re putting the names of people we’re praying for along the race route. I’d like to put your name, if you don’t mind.”

  “That would be nice. Maybe I’ll be there to see the runners.”

  Hannah doubted that, but at least Sarah was envisioning a time when she would be feeling better. She hadn’t given up hope.

  Hannah helped Mattie place the animals back into the basket. By the time they picked up the tray and crept to the door, Sarah was already asleep. Something about the way she lay there, the sun still shining in and falling on her where she rested in the bed, reminded Hannah of an infant—of one who had to depend on others. Sarah was depending on them—on Reuben and Eunice and even Hannah and Mattie. They were all her family, in one sense. And they’d do whatever they needed to do to help her recover from this dreadful disease.

  Fifteen

  The facility for Indiana Canine Assistant Network was not what Preston had expected. He didn’t know what he had envisioned—a sad little animal shelter maybe. Or a cold, institutional place for training animals.

  ICAN was like something out of a canine’s dreams—if dogs dreamed. As they parked and walked toward the building, he noticed a blue canopy covering a concrete slab. Several dogs pushed and pulled on a chew toy, while another lay on its stomach, watching the tug-of-war. Though ICAN was on the outskirts of Fort Wayne, the property itself looked like something in Middlebury. Trees lined the walk, and the medium-size building had been constructed underneath the shade of a grove of maple trees.

  Preston could just make out a creek passing through the back corner of the property. He stopped and studied someone who was working with a dog down by the creek. That dog, as well as the ones under the canopy, all wore blue halters.

  “Nice digs,” Amber murmured.

  “Looks like a boarding facility where the rich and famous leave their pets.”

  Despite Preston’s flashback, they were on time for their appointment, and Tomas Hernandez was waiting for them inside the door of the main ICAN building. He was approximately Preston’s age, and he looked as if he spent a fair amount of time working out at a gym. His handshake was firm, and he had no problem maintaining eye contact as he introduced himself. Preston had learned through the years that most people who knew about his PTSD would glance at him and then look away—as if they were afraid they might set him off. Somehow they were uncertain it was safe to be around someone like him. And maybe it wasn’t. Today’s flashback had proven to him once again that he could never be sure his PTSD wouldn’t take control.

  “I’m glad you could make it,” Tomas said after introductions were made all around.

  “Nice place you have.” Amber looked left and then right.

  Preston was surprised there wasn’t a smell to the place. When he was a teenager, he’d taken Skipper into the vet for his mom. He could still remember the way the place had smelled of cats and dogs and antiseptic—and maybe fear.

  “Thanks.” Tomas walked them back to a small office. “This is only a satellite facility. My main office is at our facility in Indianapolis, but I travel here occasionally to deliver a dog.”

  “I hope it wasn’t a wasted trip for you.” Preston sat in the chair Tomas indicated, but he didn’t relax.

  “We’ll get to that in a minute. First I’d like to tell you a little about ICAN. We’ve been in business for fifteen years. Our dogs are trained by adults incarcerated in Indiana correctional facilities. I like to tell folks that up front since some people have a problem with it.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  Tomas shrugged. “Occasionally potential participants don’t like the idea that the training takes place inside a correctional facility, that a prisoner has been working with their dog. Who knows why? I just like to put the details out there at the beginning so that we can ascertain if it will be a problem.”

  “Everyone deserves a second chance,” Preston said. He was thinking that he understood the truth of that statement better than most.

  “What kind of dogs do you use?” Amber asked.

  “Retrievers and Labradors.” Tomas handed them both a folder full of literature about ICAN. “I don’t expect you to read all that now, but scan over it and call me if you get home and have questions. I’ll cover the high spots today, but the brochures go into more detail, as does our website.”

  He spent the next ten minutes explaining how the dogs were trained through a vigorous program with positive reinforcement, performed by both correctional inmates and ICAN volunteers. Their organization had begun training dogs for children with Down syndrome and cerebral palsy. After a few years they branched out to providing service dogs to children and adults who suffered from Type 1 diabetes. And more recently they had begun training dogs for folks with PTSD, especially veterans.

  “I see your average wait time is three to four years.” Amber had been glancing over the brochures as Tomas spoke.

  “Zoey and I sent my application in a few months ago.” Preston shook his head. “How is it possible that you called me so soon?”

  “It’s an unusual situation. We had trained Mocha for another vet who won’t be needing her now. After looking over our applicants, you seemed like the best fit for her.”

  Preston and Amber shared a smile at the name. Mocha. He’d first come to the Village, first met Amber, because of what had occurred at the coffee shop. Coincidence? Or a sign that this was the right thing to do?

  “The person you’d trained her for won’t need her . . . what does that mean?” Preston fidgeted with the folder but didn’t open it. “Why wouldn’t he need her?”

  “I can’t share information about another client.”

  “I’m not sure I feel comfortable taking a dog that should have gone to someone else—”

  “I understand.” Tomas met his gaze and seemed to come to a decision. “I can tell you that this particular person decided to pursue other avenues of treatment. Service dogs aren’t for everyone, which is why we ask you to come out and spend some time here. It’s important that you are a good fit for each other.”

  Preston nodded as if he understood, but he wasn’t sure if any of it made sense.

  “You have doubts.”

  “I just don’t see how a dog can possibly help me.”

  “You’ve been diagnosed with PTSD, right?”

  Preston nodded in one quick, short motion. His condition wasn’t something he discussed openly, and never with someone he’d just met.

  “Where did you serve?”

  “Afghanistan.”

  “Do you relive your combat experience . . . to the point that it interrupts your daily activities?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you isolate yourself from others?”

  “I guess . . . some.”

  “And do you startle easily?”

  Again, Preston nodded.

  “On a scale of 1 to 10, how severe would you say your symptoms are?”

  Preston remembered waking in the Dawdy Haus, his bed a shambles, the mattress on its side, and the nightstand broken. He remembered the pain in his legs from crouching in the corner of the room.

  He glanced at Amber, and he knew she was thinking about their trip there, him fighting to maintain control as he pulled off to the side of the road.

  He glanced out t
he window and thought of Zoey, the hopeful look in her eyes, and his fear that he could never offer her a safe home.

  He was ashamed of those things. If he couldn’t be honest in front of Amber, who was like family to him, and in front of Tomas, who obviously wanted to help, then he had little or no chance of getting better.

  “Eight or nine. Some days a ten.” He swallowed, his throat suddenly terribly dry. “Some days are better than others.”

  “Our first PTSD dog went to a vet from Iraq. Let’s call this guy Sam.” Tomas smiled, apparently pleased with having found a way around the privacy issues by providing a fictitious name. “Sam had frequent flashbacks. When he did, his brain and body reacted as though the danger was real, as though he was once again in combat. His sister was afraid to leave him alone, and the entire family worried about him driving. He found it hard to hold a job or maintain any sense of normalcy.”

  “Sounds familiar,” Preston muttered. “You’re going to tell me a dog cured this guy? I have a hard time believing that’s possible.”

  “It wasn’t instantaneous. A dog isn’t a magical antidote against PTSD. In this case, we provided him with a Lab named Simon. Simon helped Sam with some physical issues, but more importantly the dog could recognize the first signs of a flashback.”

  “Recognize how?” Amber sat forward in her chair.

  “I’ll be honest. We don’t understand the how, but we’ve seen it work time and again. Perhaps they’re able to recognize certain repetitive behaviors you have that signal you’re about to suffer a flashback.”

  Preston thought about his recent flashbacks—each time he’d had a sense of falling, felt as if he were actually touching the grit and gravel of the desert, and become painfully thirsty. Did his heart rate spike when that happened? Did he clutch his hand or swallow repeatedly? He didn’t know, because he was always falling, falling back into the past.

  Could a dog sense his distress?

  “A dog trained to assist someone with PTSD will learn to recognize when his or her master is slipping into a flashback. When that happens, he’ll provide tactile stimulation—”

  Amber looked as confused as Preston felt.