Leo Denver

Since childhood, you'd been sick.Not the kind of sick that kept you home from school for a few days before everything went back to normal. The kind of sick that became your entire life. Hospitals were your childhood. The smell of disinfectant. The cold touch of IV needles. The endless white walls and pale blue curtains that separated one patient from another. Doctors and nurses came and went so often that some of them felt more familiar than family. You never went to school.

You'd watched children your age through television screens instead—laughing in classrooms, complaining about homework, making plans for the weekend. Things that seemed ordinary to everyone else felt impossibly distant to you. You never got a first day of school. Never sat at a lunch table trying to make friends. Never experienced the awkward excitement of a school dance. As you grew older, the gap between your life and everyone else's only widened. People your age got jobs.

They complained about difficult bosses and early mornings. They went on dates. They fell in love. They built lives. Meanwhile, your world remained the same four walls. Doctors tried treatments. Specialists came and went. New medications were prescribed. Machines were upgraded. There were moments when everyone thought things might finally improve. Then the illness would remind everyone why you were still here. Years passed. One became five. Five became ten. Ten became twenty. Now, at twenty-one years old, you lay in a hospital bed staring blankly at the wall across from you.

The room was quiet except for the familiar sound of machinery. *Beep.**Beep.**Beep.*The monitor beside your bed never seemed to rest. Neither did the countless machines connected to you. You knew every sound they made. Every warning tone. Every mechanical hum. They had become background noise years ago.

Sunlight filtered weakly through the window, painting pale streaks across the floor. Outside, people hurried along sidewalks and roads, living lives you could only imagine. You wondered what it felt like. To walk wherever you wanted. To wake up without doctors checking your vitals. To make plans that didn't depend on test results. The thought came and went like it always did. You turned your attention back to the blank wall.

The door opened. You barely reacted. Visitors were nothing unusual. A doctor entered, tablet in hand, reviewing information as he approached your bedside. His expression was familiar—the practiced smile medical professionals wore when they wanted to appear reassuring. "Everything looks stable today," he said after checking a few readings. You didn't answer. You rarely did anymore. It wasn't that you were rude. You were simply tired. Tired of conversations that led nowhere. Tired of hopeful promises. Tired of hearing people tell you things would get better when nobody really knew if they would. The doctor didn't seem bothered by your silence. He finished checking the machines before glancing toward the doorway. A small smile appeared on his face. "Perfect timing."

You frowned slightly. That was unusual. The doctor stepped aside. "Come in." A man entered. At first, you only noticed his height. Then the broad shoulders. Dark hair. Sharp features. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, dressed casually rather than in scrubs or a lab coat. Definitely not hospital staff. Walking calmly beside him was a Doberman. The dog's black coat gleamed under the fluorescent lights. His ears perked forward as he stepped into the room, alert but relaxed. The soft clicking of his nails against the floor echoed through the silence. For the first time all day, your attention shifted fully away from the wall. The doctor noticed immediately.

His smile widened. "I had a feeling this might get your attention." The Doberman sat obediently beside the man without being told. The stranger rested a hand on the dog's head. The doctor looked at you. "I thought you might like a furry friend for a little while." You remained silent. The doctor gestured toward the newcomer. "This is Leo." Then he pointed toward the dog. "And this handsome guy is Teddy." The Doberman's tail gave a slow wag against the floor. Your eyes lingered on the dog. Animals weren't exactly common visitors. You couldn't remember the last time you'd been this close to one. Teddy seemed completely comfortable in the room. He looked around once before settling his gaze on you.

Not the machines. Not the tubes. You.

Something about that felt strange. Most people looked at your illness first. The dog didn't seem to care. The room fell quiet. The doctor waited. Leo waited. Even Teddy seemed to wait. Eventually, you gave a small nod. It was subtle enough that most people might have missed it. But they noticed. "That's the most enthusiasm I've seen all week," the doctor joked. You ignored the comment. Leo let out a soft laugh. It wasn't mocking. Just warm. Easy. The kind of laugh belonging to someone who wasn't uncomfortable around silence.

For some reason, that caught your attention almost as much as the dog. Teddy's tail wagged again. Slowly. Patiently. As though he had all the time in the world. And for the first time in a very long while, the hospital room felt just a little less empty.