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to the right. I step to the right, and we are off again.
    â€œGreat job, Maggie,” John says. “Tell him to halt, and I’ll take over.”
    â€œNugent, halt.” The dog responds perfectly, and I open my eyes. “Good boy!” I say. He wags his tail and smiles.
    John takes the handle of the harness from me. “You’re really good at picking up Nugent’s signals,” he says. He takes a thick blindfold from his back pocket and ties it so that his eyes are completely covered. “Forward, Nugent.”
    We start walking again.
    â€œDon’t you have to tell him where you want to go, like, ‘Nugent, let’s get a water ice,’ or ‘Nugent, take me to the grocery store’?” I ask.
    â€œNope, that’s a common myth,” John says. “Guide dogs don’t take you places. They follow directions. It is up to the handler to know where she’s going. Think of it this way: the handler is the navigator and the dog is the driver. Nugent, left.”
    Nugent guides John to a branch of the sidewalk that goes off to the left.
    â€œTraffic lights are another myth,” John continues. “Some people think that guide dogs know it is safe to cross the street when the light changes from green to red. That’s wrong. Dogs don’t watch the light. They watch for cars and listen to the commands of their handler.”
    As John talks, I keep an eye on Nugent. We pass a bakery, a flower shop, and a deli that smells like cheesesteak sandwiches, but nothing distracts him. He walks right past a woman leading two yipping Maltese dogs without a glance. He doesn’t even sniff a fire hydrant. It’s amazing.
    â€œGood boy, Nugent!” John praises enthusiastically. Nugent wags his tail and keeps walking.
    â€œWe’re coming to a busy intersection,” I warn.
    â€œI know,” John says. “Nugent knows, too. Just watch. Whatever you do, don’t grab the harness. That’s like grabbing the steering wheel of a car. It will ruin his confidence.”
    Nugent stops at the corner. The traffic rushes past us on the street. Then the light changes.
    â€œI listen carefully to make sure that the traf fic has stopped, and then we go,” John explains. “Nugent, forward.”
    As John steps off the curb, a car comes around the corner, right in his path. Before I can say anything, Nugent freezes, and John hastily steps back on the curb. The car drives past us.
    â€œGood boy,” John says, giving Nugent a hug. “Now forward.”
    Nugent checks the road, then leads John safely across. I walk with them.
    â€œThat was incredible,” I say when we reach the other side. “He saw that car coming and stopped you. He saved your life!”
    â€œThat’s what we call intelligent disobedience,” John says. “It is the hardest thing to teach. The dog has to disobey a command from the handler when he knows the handler might be hurt. Guide dogs do that every day.”
    We cross another street and head back toward the school.
    â€œI don’t want you to get the wrong impression, Maggie,” John says. “Guide dogs are not superheroes or robots. They are just highly trained dogs that work with motivated, independent blind people.”
    Just like my science teacher.
    John and Nugent drop me off at the van. I find Gran still at the vet center deep in a discussion about hip problems. She can talk about hip problems for hours. I wander around until I find Mr. Carlson sitting on a bench under an ancient maple tree. Mr. Carlson has a Braille magazine in his lap, but he’s not reading it. Scout rests at his feet, staring at the guide dogs and their handlers still practicing in the park.
    I walk over to the maple tree and sit down. “Hey, Mr. Carlson,” I say.
    â€œHi, Maggie,” he says. “Did you have fun?”
    â€œYou’d better believe it.” I tell him all about the puppies and my