From The Ashes. Sharon Mignerey

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      The back door to the house slammed, and Angela turned to see Maisey coming toward her. Fiftyish and plump, the woman was smiling, just as always.

      “Every single morning I think I can get here before you, and you’ve beat me again.” She held her bracelet-encased arms out to the dogs who came to greet her.

      “I couldn’t sleep,” Angela said while Maisey murmured greetings to each of the dogs. “So I decided I might as well get up and come in.”

      “Thinking about that good-looking Brian Ramsey, I bet.”

      Angela had called her last night before talking to Brian. “Yes, but not because he’s good-looking. I invited him out here today so you can meet him. I want to know what you think before we agree to let him participate in the training.”

      Maisey laughed at her prim tone. “I told you already. I trust your judgment.”

      “I know you do.” Angela headed back toward the kennel to set out breakfast for the dogs. “But let’s face it. Since he’s a high-profile kind of man, we have to take the bad with the good. If this doesn’t work out the way he hopes it will—”

      “It’s all going to be fine.”

      “Says the eternal optimist.” Angela followed Maisey inside, holding the door open for the dogs.

      Maisey headed to the cupboard and set out five dishes. “What are you afraid of?”

      Angela stared into space a moment before saying, “I want to make sure it’s not my ego with grandiose ideas that makes me think this can work.” She began measuring out the kibble for each dish.

      “I’ll meet him,” Maisey promised. “But the choice is still yours.” She grabbed a couple of the bowls, setting them in front of Checkers and Gatsby, who like all the dogs were patiently sitting, as they had been trained. “I picked up the messages. There were three for you from a Tommy Manderoll. ‘Urgent,’ he said.”

      Angela sighed. “He’s a lowlife from my past,” she said, setting down the remaining bowls. Just because he had called her didn’t mean she had to call him back. She was sure he’d take any contact, even in the form of go-fly-a-kite as some sort of perverse encouragement. “Throw away the messages.”

      “Anything else I can do?” Maisey asked.

      Angela shook her head. “Anything else would be illegal.”

      Maisey laughed. “Well, we can’t have that, can we?”

      After the dogs ate, Angela put on their in-training vests, a signal that playtime was over. As she worked with each of the dogs, she made notations in the planning books she kept for each one. She kept thinking about Brian’s comparison to training camp.

      She supposed the initial assessment they made of the dogs was like training camp—figuring out which ones had the aptitude for their intended jobs. Only a few of the dogs they had chosen for the program had made the grade. The dogs that didn’t were adopted out to families. For the dogs that did, the real work began, complete with a “playbook” where goals were set out, progress was charted and personality traits were noted.

      When Brian and Sam arrived shortly before noon, Maisey hung around only long enough for introductions before leaving with a whispered, “He’s great. Snap him up,” behind Brian’s back. To Angela, that sounded way too personal. Personal would never do.

      Brian told Sam he could leave for a couple of hours, which left Angela alone with him. Gathering several Frisbees and softballs, she took him to the yard where the dogs were.

      “This is playtime?” he asked with a teasing smile. “And here I thought you’d give me a formal demonstration.”

      “You saw that yesterday at the luncheon,” she said, handing him one of the discs. “These guys all love Frisbee and can go at it all day long.”

      “Good thing I have a strong arm,” he said, taking the first one from her and sending it flying. “And that I don’t have to worry about interceptions.”

      “Did that happen a lot?” she asked.

      “Too much last year.” He threw the next three discs in rapid succession, a big grin on his face as the dogs chased down the yard, their eyes on their prize. “These guys could be NFL-bound with speed like that.”

      “How did you first learn you were losing your vision?”

      The first of the dogs returned and dropped the disc at Brian’s feet. “Good boy,” he said, patting the dog and throwing the Frisbee again. “I was having the worst headaches of my life. At first the doctor thought it was migraines.”

      “Glaucoma?”

      Brian stared at her, aware that the dogs were returning one by one and dropping their prizes at his feet. “How could you know that?”

      “One of the symptoms.” She smiled slightly. “And not a huge leap since it’s a primary cause of blindness. It’s pretty unusual for someone your age, but not unheard of.”

      He picked up the Frisbees and threw them one by one for the dogs already running away from him like well-honed running backs. “It’s more a case of reaping the rewards of my sins.”

      “I don’t understand.”

      “Steroids,” he said simply. “My doctor says he’s never seen a case quite like mine, but the theory is anabolic steroids plus genetics plus the physical abuse inherent to playing a contact sport is what led to the condition. Definitely not my smartest move.”

      She nodded as though she really understood. “That goes along with one of my favorite sayings. Do you know what results in good judgment?” When he shook his head, she said, “Experience.”

      He grinned. “If that’s not the truth…”

      “And what results in experience?” She paused for a beat.

      “Poor judgment,” he guessed, then grinned more widely when she nodded. “I have to remember that. I like it.” He threw the Frisbees once more. “Anyway, surgery last January wasn’t successful, and medications haven’t helped, either. The docs tell me that’s the way it is sometimes. Too much irreversible damage, and nothing can be done.”

      “How much vision do you have left?” she asked.

      He made a circle with his thumb and forefinger that was about four inches in diameter, and held it in front of his eyes. “Everything on the outside of that circle is black. My doc says it might stabilize and stay like this for a while, or the rest of the field of vision might close and be gone in a matter of days.”

      “So you’re praying for a miracle now.” She said it as though she was teasing.

      “Nope,” Brian said, turning slightly, so he could see her, comparing the circle of his vision to what he remembered from the previous day. “That would be taking away my responsibility for what I did to myself.”

      Her smile faded to a softer expression, as though she once more understood exactly what he meant.

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