"I think he’s hiding," she said
You are a God who hides yourself.
I boarded the shuttle to work last Monday with a cloud over my head. A lot’s been going on.
The bus was almost full. I sat in the second row behind the driver, next to a young woman whose laptop was open on her knees, its screen touching the back of the seat in front of her. I crammed my work backpack next to hers, under my feet. I made room for her elbow so that she could type, then lost myself in my phone’s browser.
About 45 minutes into the ride, she began to rummage on the floor, as if surprised.
Did she lose something?
I looked down. To my astonishment, a Golden Lab was resting his head on my left foot. He was very quiet. He moved nothing but his big brown eyes, looking from one to the other of us as if to say, “You’re not going to kick me out, are you?” Dogs aren’t allowed on the corporate shuttle, and he knew it.
“I think he’s hiding,” the woman said.
He must have started out behind his owner’s feet, fully hidden beneath the seat in front of us. Then little by little he stretched out as the ride went on, finally daring to lean his head against my foot.
When we neared our destination, he moved his head, and my foot felt cold. I hadn’t even noticed that someone was keeping it warm.