The medicine made the world feel loud and sharp, even when the house was completely silent. I spent my days in the recliner by the living room window, watching the neighborhood move in a blur of colors I couldn’t quite track. Buster, my rescue terrier, spent those same hours under the sofa. He was a survivor of a hoarding situation before he came to me, and he carried his fear like a heavy, invisible coat. When the treatments started, I realized I couldn’t manage his walks.

He would freeze at the sound of a passing car, his legs turning to stone, his eyes wide and white. It wasn’t just physical weakness on my part, although that was real enough. It was the crushing weight of knowing I couldn’t offer him the safety he needed.

I put up a flyer at the community college bulletin board. It was a desperate, simple thing. I just needed someone to get him around the block twice a day. Leo showed up on a Tuesday at 4:15 PM. He was a sophomore, tall and quiet, wearing an oversized hoodie that looked like he’d slept in it for a week. He didn’t knock on the door or call out. He just waited on the porch, staring at the peeling white paint on the siding. When I opened the door, he didn’t reach for the leash immediately. He knelt down, kept his gaze low, and just held his hand out, palm up.

He stayed there for five minutes until Buster crawled out from the shadows to sniff his boots. That was the moment I knew he was the one.

The first week was a disaster of nerves. I watched from the window as they made it exactly thirty feet down the driveway. A delivery truck rumbled past, and Buster locked up. He went rigid, his tail tucked so tightly it looked like it was glued to his belly. I held my breath, expecting Leo to tug on the leash, to drag him or get frustrated. I knew that reaction. I had seen it in the shelter staff when I first picked him up. But Leo didn’t move. He stood there for a second, sighed, and then he just sat down. He sat right there on the asphalt of the driveway, cross-legged, and opened his backpack. He pulled out a thick, battered copy of a book and started reading.

I watched for thirty minutes. Leo didn’t look at his phone. He didn’t look at the road. He just kept reading aloud, his voice low and rhythmic, rising and falling like a tide. Buster stood frozen for a long time, but then, slowly, the tension began to leave his shoulders. He took a step toward Leoand nudged his hand with a wet nose. Leo didn’t stop reading, just reached out to scratch the spot behind Buster’s ears. I felt my chest loosen for the first time in weeks. I walked to the door and opened it, intending to tell him he didn’t have to stay the whole hour if the dog was being difficult. He looked up, his eyes tired but steady, and he smiled.

“He’s not being difficult, ma’am,” he said softly, closing the book. “When I was in foster care, the only time I felt safe was when someone sat with me and read to me. He’s just scared of being left behind again.”

That was the turning point. Over the next few months, as my treatments reached their peak, the sight of them sitting on the grass became my anchor. Leo never forced a walk, and eventually, he didn’t have to. Buster began to trust the rhythm of the words, then the rhythm of Leo’s steady, unhurried gait. By the time I finished my last infusion, the dog who once turned to stone at the sound of a car was trotting happily by Leo’s side, tail held high. Leo doesn’t just walk him anymore; he stops by every Friday to sit on the porch, reading aloud from the crate of paperbacks I keep by the door. We don’t talk much about the chemo or the foster system, but we don’t have to. We both know what it’s like to need a reason to keep going, and sometimes, all it takes is someone willing to sit in the cold until you’re ready to move again.