At 8:55, the café hummed. Regulars in work boots. A young mom with a baby on her hip. Two high-school kids in letterman jackets sharing a plate of fries they weren’t supposed to be eating before lunch period. The radio played low, something soft from the eighties.

Then the door opened, and Ray McMillan walked in with Shadow.

He was tall, in that way the military sometimes stamped onto people—straight posture, shoulders stiff, eyes always tracking exits. Late fifties, silver in his hair, the kind of man who felt like he took up less space than he actually did, like he was trying his best not to bump into the world.

Shadow padded at his side: a black Lab–German Shepherd mix with a red service-dog vest that said in clean white letters, “Service Dog – Do Not Pet.”

Grace’s whole face softened.

“Table by the window’s open,” she told him. “Fresh pot of dark roast just for you.”