In the corner of the picture was Charlie, barking at the man. There, written in careful block letters, was one line. He says he loves me, but I’m only safe when he’s not near.
A grasp rippled through the courtroom.
The father stood up immediately. This is silly.
That dog is practiced.
She could’ve. Sit down, the judge snapped, voice sharp with fury. Or I will have you got rid of from this courtroom.
Silence fell again. Lila didn’t started. Charlie sat still, calm as ever, his eyes centered on the girl he’d sworn to protect.
And then, Lila spoke. Her voice was soft. But clear. Charlie understands who keeps me safe, she said.
He remembers everything. Even when I couldn’t. The courtroom was astonished.
Even the court reporter’s fingers stopped typing. Judge Holloway looked at her for a long moment. Then she turned to the mother.
Effective immediately. The mother started crying. The father tried to argue but the bailiff stepped in, firm and silent.
However, it wasn’t over yet. As the judge collected her papers and the gavel moved toward its final bang, she paused. She looked at Lila.
Then at Charlie. You’ve shared more in one signal than most adults do in a thousand words, she muttered. And with a trembling hand, she set down the gavel.
Not in judgment, but in awe. Six months later. Where Lila sat, the sun was shining on the park bench, a drawing pad in her lap, Charlie coiled beside her.
A little boy approached and asked, Can I pet your dog? Lila looked up. She smiled.
Only if you ask him first. How? She tapped her chest, twice.
Charlie gave a happy bark and wagged his tail. And Lila started laughed after a long time. A real laugh.
The kind that said the bridge was working.
