That evening Carla called the couple scheduled to foster Rufus.
Their names were Gerald and Susan Avery.
Gerald was sixty-eight, a retired telephone lineman. Susan was sixty-six and had worked thirty years in a public elementary school office. They lived on four acres outside Findlay with a fenced section behind the house, one elderly terrier, and the kind of quiet routine Carla believed would suit Rufus.
The original plan had been simple foster care with the possibility of adoption if Megan could not reclaim the dog.
After hearing about the visit, Susan asked a different question.
“How long until she's out?”
Carla gave her the approximate date.
Susan paused.
“So this isn't really a dog who needs a new person. It's a dog who needs somewhere to wait.”
That sentence changed the arrangement.
The Averys agreed to foster Rufus specifically until Megan's release, provided she remained able to resume responsibility for him. They did not want ownership transferred unless circumstances required it.
Carla told Megan through her brother several days later.
For the first time since entering jail, Megan knew where Rufus would be when she got out.
He was not being adopted away from her.
He was waiting.
The distinction mattered.
The Averys took that responsibility seriously without pretending Rufus understood the plan. They did not tell people the dog “knew Megan was coming back.” There was no way to know what Rufus understood about time or absence.
What they could observe was routine.
At their house, Rufus learned breakfast came at seven. He learned where the water bowl stayed. He found a warm patch of afternoon sun near the sliding door. Gerald took him on slow walks along the back fence because his hips handled level ground better than the gravel lane.
And each evening, usually sometime between 5:30 and 5:45, Rufus became restless.
He went to the front room.
He watched the drive.
Sometimes he stood by the door.
Susan began sending Megan's brother a photograph once a week.
Megan received descriptions during phone calls because printed photos took longer to reach her. Rufus asleep under Gerald's desk. Rufus lying beside the terrier. Rufus in the yard with his nose buried in autumn leaves.
Those details became anchors.
She began counting time differently.
Not by trays or counts or fluorescent lights.
By Tuesdays, when her brother usually called.
By the number of arthritis tablets left in the bottle.
By the weeks until the release date written on a small paper calendar.
Deputy Mercer did not see Megan often after the visit. County jails are busy places, and unusual moments quickly disappear beneath ordinary work.
Once, several weeks later, he passed her during movement between areas.