The next Monday morning, the scene at Elm and 5th returned with a new, heavy clarity. As José pulled the 402 to the curb, he looked at Barnaby not as a mystery or a stray, but as a fellow traveler lost in the fog of grief. He realized that for Barnaby, the arrival of the bus was the only thing left of Toby. The hiss of the pneumatic brakes and the clatter of the doors were the signals that his world might finally be righted.
José watched the dog’s ears perk up as the doors folded open. He watched the dog’s eyes scan the faces of the three people who got off—a tired nurse, a teenager in a hoodie, and a businessman. Each time the last person stepped away, and Toby wasn’t there, Barnaby’s posture slumped just a fraction of an inch, yet he never left his post. He was a master of hope, even as that hope was being systematically dismantled every morning.