When she reached Faust, she stopped.
Her body collapsed inward. Tail tucked. She sank to the floor and urinated. Not defiance. Fear.
She wouldn’t look at him.
“She’s nervous,” he said.
No one answered.
They walked her forward.
Toward Elijah.
He didn’t call her. Didn’t move.
She saw him.
Her tail lifted—slow, cautious.
She pulled forward.
Climbed into his lap.
Forty-five pounds of scars and hunger and fear—folding into him like she finally found something solid.
She tucked her head under his chin.
And exhaled.
A long, deep breath.
The kind you don’t let go of until you feel safe.
The entire room heard it.
Everyone thought that was the end.
It wasn’t.
The lawyer asked one last question.
“How did you recognize the wire?”
Silence.
Then Elijah said:
“Because I had one.”
Photos were submitted.
A scar around his neck. Thin. Circular.
