Knowing that did not stop the worry.
The jail smelled nothing like him.
His clothing was different.
His hair was longer than usual.
There would be thick glass between them.
Maybe Rusty would see another man in orange and nothing more.
By Tuesday afternoon, Jason had talked himself into expecting almost nothing.
Five minutes.
A dog on one side.
A man on the other.
That was enough.
Rebecca arrived with Rusty shortly after two.
She brought vaccination records even though the jail already had copies.
Rusty wore his blue nylon collar and a standard leash. Rebecca had considered bringing Jason's old sweatshirt but decided against adding another object to an already unusual environment.
The dog walked through the public entrance cautiously.
Floors changed beneath his paws.
Doors opened and closed.
The air smelled of disinfectant and strangers.
Fluorescent lights flattened everything.
Rebecca guided him toward the designated visitation booth.
On the other side of two thick layers of glass, Jason was already waiting.
He saw Rusty first.
For a moment Jason forgot every instruction he had given himself about staying composed.
The dog looked older.
That was his first thought.
Not dramatically older.
Just enough.
More white along the muzzle.
A little less muscle over the hips.
The blue collar still the same.
Jason stepped closer to the glass.
Rusty was looking toward the floor.
Then Jason raised his hand.
The dog looked up.
Rebecca later struggled to describe exactly what changed because nothing about it was dramatic enough to sound convincing in retelling.
Rusty did not jump.
He did not bark.
He did not suddenly throw himself at the partition.
He simply stopped.
His eyes fixed on Jason.
His head lifted slightly.
Then he walked closer.
Jason's face changed before the dog reached the glass.
His mouth tightened.
His eyes filled.