Until Tuesday by Bret Witter, Luis Carlos Montalván

Tuesday respected and liked Brendan, but I don’t think he was emotionally attached. Not like he had been to his first raiser in prison, or even to Tom. He had hardened himself against that kind of heartbreak.
    And Brendan, while he loved Tuesday, had always known he was training him for someone else. The completion of that mission—the knowledge that for the first time in his life he had been trusted with an opportunity, and he had succeeded—was more valuable to him than keeping Tuesday. As Tom put it, knowing he was helping others “got his mind right and focused on the positives.” By the time I arrived, both Brendan and Tuesday were ready to move on.
    But that doesn’t mean they forgot each other. A few months after being partnered with Tuesday, I returned to ECAD for a fundraising event. Tuesday was so excited, I decided to ignore Lu’s advice and let him off his leash. He ran right to a group of kids, jumped on the biggest boy, and gave him a lick in the face. The boy laughed and hugged Tuesday, ruffled his fur, then pushed him off and told him to return to me.
    “Would you look at that!” I said to a trainer standing nearby. “Tuesday is never that way.”
    “Yeah. Straight to Brendan,” she said, as Tuesday came back to my side. When I looked at her with a puzzled expression, she smiled and said: “Brendan fixed your dog.”
    Later, I talked with Lu about Tuesday. He had been through so much. His heart was broken so many times. How was it, I wanted to know, that he had come out so perfect?
    “Perfect?” Lu said with a laugh. “Tuesday’s not perfect, Luis. Far from it. He’s just perfect for you.”

 
    PART II
     
     
    LUIS

     

CHAPTER 4
    AL-WALEED

     
     
    I am the enemy you killed, my friend.
I knew you in this dark: for so you frowned
Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.
I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.
Let us sleep now . . .
—1 ST L IEUTENANT W ILFRED O WEN ,
“S TRANGE M EETING ” *
    This is the hardest part of the story. The part that starts the memories churning. The part that makes me sweat and keeps me up for days at a time. A few years ago, I thought a probing NPR interview about my combat service had only left me drained and sick. When I listened to the broadcast later, I was surprised to hear myself stuttering and stopping, then getting up from my chair in the middle of the interview, limping to the bathroom, and throwing up. I listen to a recording of myself talking about Iraq last month, and I’m surprised to discover minutes of silence in the middle of sentences. Where did I go? What was I thinking about? And why don’t I remember that?
    I wouldn’t put myself through this, of course, if I didn’t think it would help. It’s therapy for me, sort of pulling out the shrapnel and applying a field dressing, battlefield-style. More importantly, I think it will help other veterans, and especially their families. Post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) isn’t something you just get over. You don’t go back to being who you were. It’s more like a snow globe. War shakes you up, and suddenly all those pieces of your life—muscles, bones, thoughts, beliefs, relationships, even your dreams—are floating in the air out of your grip. They’ll come down. I’m here to tell you that, with hard work, you’ll recover. But they’ll never come down where they once were. You’re a changed person after combat. Not better or worse, just different. Seeking or wishing for the old you is the worst thing you can do.
    So I want to be precise. In the last section, I imagined much of Tuesday’s early life. I had details, but I didn’t have a mental picture, so I looked at his smiling mug sitting right here beside me and imagined him smaller, more needy, less sure of himself. I thought about what broke him and how special the people were who put him back together. I asked myself, why does this dog make such an impression on people? Why, no matter where he goes, does he