Part 6 – “The Breath Between Beats”
Spring was trying, but not hard enough. The last traces of snow clung to the curb like stubborn regrets, and the wind still carried a bite. But inside the waiting room, something had shifted. The heater hummed softer. The light through the front windows was warmer.
And Junebug was still there.
Margaret hadn’t said it aloud, but she’d started measuring time differently. Not in hours or days—those had lost meaning. Instead, she marked it in tail wags, eye flickers, tiny flares of spirit that surfaced now and then like fireflies.
One yesterday.
Two today.
She’d written them down like vital signs.
The visitor log had nearly half its pages filled now. Sketches. Prayers. One woman had taped in a photo of her old cat beside a shaky note: “Tell Whiskers I still miss her.”
Junebug hadn’t moved when it was added, but Margaret swore she felt her exhale longer—like she’d accepted the job.
That morning, Danny arrived without the mittens. He climbed into the seat next to Margaret, careful not to jostle Junebug, and held out a folded drawing.
“This one’s important,” he said.
Margaret opened it.
It showed the whole waiting room—each animal sketched in colored pencil, but with something new: above their heads were little glowing lights. Like halos. Or stars. Or thoughts.
Junebug was in the center.
“She’s not just waiting,” Danny explained. “She’s collecting them.”
Margaret swallowed hard. “Collecting what?”
“The stories,” he said. “So she can carry them.”
Milo, who had been unusually quiet, flapped down from his perch.
“I hate to say it,” he muttered, “but the kid’s probably right.”
Margaret raised a brow. “About what?”
“That mutt of yours,” the bird said, nodding at Junebug. “She’s been watching us for weeks. Taking it all in. Doesn’t talk. Doesn’t bark. Just stores things.”
“Why would she do that?”
“Because someone has to remember,” Milo whispered. “And most of us don’t make it long enough to carry what matters.”
Then he turned and flew back to Doris’s shoulder, leaving Margaret stunned.
That day, Dr. Sorenson came out holding not a chart, but a blanket.
“Can we bring her in here?” he asked. “Not for treatment. For company.”
Margaret followed him to the quiet room in the back—a place meant for the hard moments. It had a window overlooking a brittle garden and a loveseat nobody ever used.
He laid Junebug on the blanket, then pulled over a second chair for Margaret.
“She doesn’t need medicine right now,” he said. “She needs space.”
Margaret nodded. “And stories.”
She opened her journal again.
March 24th – Junebug is collecting stories. I can’t prove it, but I know it. She’s remembering all of us, even the ones who’ve already left. She’s preparing something. Not for herself—for us.
She paused.
Then added: I think she knows she’s the breath between our beats.
Later, back in the main waiting room, the boy’s mother came over quietly.
“Danny said he wants to be a vet,” she said.
Margaret looked up, surprised. “Because of Junebug?”
“Because of Junebug,” the woman said, smiling. “He says if one dog can change a waiting room, maybe he can change more.”
And Junebug, curled into herself like a closing flower, opened one eye.
Just enough to see.
Just enough to wait.
Continue Reading Part 7 – “The Quiet Room”
