From The Ashes. Sharon Mignerey

his face as the dogs chased down the yard, their eyes on their prize. “These guys could be NFL-bound with speed like that.”

      “How did you first learn you were losing your vision?”

      The first of the dogs returned and dropped the disc at Brian’s feet. “Good boy,” he said, patting the dog and throwing the Frisbee again. “I was having the worst headaches of my life. At first the doctor thought it was migraines.”

      “Glaucoma?”

      Brian stared at her, aware that the dogs were returning one by one and dropping their prizes at his feet. “How could you know that?”

      “One of the symptoms.” She smiled slightly. “And not a huge leap since it’s a primary cause of blindness. It’s pretty unusual for someone your age, but not unheard of.”

      He picked up the Frisbees and threw them one by one for the dogs already running away from him like well-honed running backs. “It’s more a case of reaping the rewards of my sins.”

      “I don’t understand.”

      “Steroids,” he said simply. “My doctor says he’s never seen a case quite like mine, but the theory is anabolic steroids plus genetics plus the physical abuse inherent to playing a contact sport is what led to the condition. Definitely not my smartest move.”

      She nodded as though she really understood. “That goes along with one of my favorite sayings. Do you know what results in good judgment?” When he shook his head, she said, “Experience.”

      He grinned. “If that’s not the truth…”

      “And what results in experience?” She paused for a beat.

      “Poor judgment,” he guessed, then grinned more widely when she nodded. “I have to remember that. I like it.” He threw the Frisbees once more. “Anyway, surgery last January wasn’t successful, and medications haven’t helped, either. The docs tell me that’s the way it is sometimes. Too much irreversible damage, and nothing can be done.”

      “How much vision do you have left?” she asked.

      He made a circle with his thumb and forefinger that was about four inches in diameter, and held it in front of his eyes. “Everything on the outside of that circle is black. My doc says it might stabilize and stay like this for a while, or the rest of the field of vision might close and be gone in a matter of days.”

      “So you’re praying for a miracle now.” She said it as though she was teasing.

      “Nope,” Brian said, turning slightly, so he could see her, comparing the circle of his vision to what he remembered from the previous day. “That would be taking away my responsibility for what I did to myself.”

      Her smile faded to a softer expression, as though she once more understood exactly what he meant.

      He noticed immediately. “You know?” he added, enjoying the connection with her. Especially because she hadn’t offered him any of the heartfelt—and unhelpful—sympathy or platitudes that others had.

      “Oh, that.” She rolled her eyes and grinned. “I’ve been there more than once myself.”

      “To the point you royally screwed up your life?”

      He’d meant the question to be a rhetorical one so he was surprised when she nodded.

      “Hard to believe. You look—”

      “Looks can be deceiving,” she said, her smile fading. “Let’s just say that I’ve too much experience—” the smile came back, rueful and directed at herself “—you know, that thing leading to good judgment—and plenty of practice with the Serenity Prayer.”

      Though he was curious, he didn’t ask about the circumstances. But he wanted to. He liked her. In their all-too-brief meetings, all those reasons for not getting involved lost importance.

      “That matter-of-fact way you talk about being responsible for your own stuff,” she added when he caught her glance, “you’d be surprised at how rare that is.”

      He grinned at how neatly she had turned the subject away from herself. His own lack of responsibility had been a point of contention between him and his grandfather for years. Brian was trying hard to rectify that, so her observation pleased him. “Maybe the world wouldn’t be in such a mess if more people did.”

      Even more, he liked that she hadn’t turned all clinical on him about how little he saw. One more thing that made her easy to be around, made him aware of her as a woman. Too aware. Once more, he reminded himself this wasn’t the time to get involved with anyone.

      “Tell me about your foundation.” She threw the tennis ball for a couple of the dogs, grinning as the big sissy-looking poodle in the red sweater flew into the air to catch one. “Why is it named the Beanstalk Gang?”

      “Because it was my favorite story when I was a boy,” Brian said. “I think we’re all given the equivalent of magic beans somewhere along the way in the form of opportunities—which are usually disguised as hard work—or advantages, like a talent to sing or play ball or be great with a computer. It’s what we do with those things that count. But, the story is also cautionary. Jack followed a calling by climbing up the beanstalk, but he also caused himself a lot of trouble by stealing from the giant. I think it’s a reminder that kids have to learn responsibility and let go of thinking they’re entitled to anything. My grandfather always told me that for every privilege there’s an equal responsibility.”

      “The work you do there…you sound like you love it.”

      “It’s what I’m supposed to be doing,” he said simply, meaning it. At one point, he hadn’t been able to imagine his life after football. Then a high school buddy who was now a teacher had told him about all the trouble the school had begun having with gang violence and vandalism, something he traced back to the suspension of after-school programs after funding was cut. That conversation had sparked Brian’s imagination, and when he’d realized that he had the money—and fund-raising ability—to do something about the situation, he’d thrown himself into the project, more satisfied with the charity work than he’d been about anything else in his life. Making such a confession to anyone, though, made him sound like some self-righteous do-gooder, and that wasn’t the case at all.

      The newspaper article that had been in the paper last week was mostly accurate, a nice change for him, and it had done exactly what he had hoped in raising awareness—and money. The foundation Web site had received ten times the number of hits since the article, and the donations had gone way up.

      He turned his head to look at Angela, not knowing what else to say that wouldn’t make him sound like some self-aggrandizing celebrity calling attention to himself.

      “I feel that way about training service dogs,” she said.

      The fact that she didn’t pry a bit surprised him. Pleased him.

      They didn’t talk for a couple of minutes while they continued to play catch and fetch with the dogs. Angela was good company, quite unlike the women he used to spend time with. He had liked girls with flash, second only to playing football. When he was younger, the key to success with both sports and girls was being bigger, stronger than the other guys. He’d known taking steroids was wrong, but at the time he’d had the misguided idea that the end justified the means. Twenty years later, he was paying the price.

      Forcing his attention away from those gloomy thoughts to the dogs playing in front of them, he sized up each one. The poodle in the sweater kept coming into his line of vision, and Brian decided it was a good thing the dog was wearing a sweater. Otherwise, he would have looked like a seventy-pound rat. The most alluring dog of the group was Polly, the dog he had met yesterday, even though he knew she was being trained to help someone else. He also really liked the golden retriever and the Lab mix.

      With effort, he returned his thoughts to the topic Angela had started. “The work of the foundation—that’s the thing that