Chapter 1
ONE
Daphne
Dear Daphne,
One year and 75 letters from you later, I don’t know if there is such a thing as a pen pal anniversary, but I’m making one because your letters are something to celebrate. Fate brought you to me and I hope soon fate will allow us to meet so I can thank you in person for giving me something to look forward to every day. From your first letter thanking me for helping your brother, I knew you were the one sent to help me.
Say hi to James for me. I miss the hell out of him but I’m happy he’s not in this shithole any longer. Unlike me, he didn’t deserve to be here. I hope he can erase the pain of this place and find the life he deserves. I hope he knows that friends aren’t always what they seem. There are few that won’t throw you under the bus to save their own ass.
I read your last letter about saving Bear, the starving pit bull tied up in the crumbling garage. I wanted to break through the concrete and metal bars and kill the motherfuckers that treated him that way. I wanted to crush their skulls with my bare hands for scaring and threatening you. Assholes that don’t take care of their pets, then have someone coming around in the freezing fucking cold at their own expense and risk to do what they won’t, then they aim a gun at you? There are so few humans left I don’t want to kill.
The only thing that settles me is that you have Mac and Tiny now. They’ve been with you almost eight months I think from what you said. It’s good they’re there to protect you and set any fuckers straight on what’s what.
I’m on countdown for my parole hearing in two days. Pretty sure I’ll be denied…again. But, who knows, miracles can happen. You happened. A miracle I never expected.
Gotta wrap up. Need to get this to the box before the bulls lock us back in our cages and I gotta turn in my damn pen. You’re the one thing in the world that makes me feel human, not like the animals they tell us we are.
Dutch
A bittersweet smile tugs at my lips as tears burn my lower lids. I hold the paper to my nose and inhale, then tuck it back into the official Cleary State Prison envelope and check my rear-view mirror.
A beat-up Ford pickup pulls up behind me—the faded blue bed, mismatched with the even more faded red cab. Another car follows close behind. They flash their lights and I wave through the back window of my high school graduation gift from my parents: a classic if not somewhat battered El Camino.
I shift into drive thinking how quickly two years has gone by, how much I’ve changed doing this work.
I signal left and head toward our first destination down the block.
Buckled in next to me is a five-gallon bucket of cooked rice, veggie, and boiled chicken I made last night. The smell is so comforting. But it only partially masks the stench of smoke as we pass the still-smoldering bones of a burned-out house.
I make up my special doggie stew a couple times a week, then distribute it to the poor chained-up dogs of this city, whose shit-fucks of owners think throwing an animal outside on a fifty-pound five-foot chain constitutes proper care.
I know I will never be able to change the way some people view animals as property. But someday, I’m going to change the laws. I don’t know how, but I’ll never stop fighting for them until there are no more chains. I won’t quit until the laws hold people responsible for all this misery and cruelty.
My entire life, anything that’s felt authentic to me revolved around doing everything in my power to help the helpless, especially animals and more specifically, dogs. If I do nothing else in the time I’m given but ease some of their suffering in a significant and perpetual way, I will die with a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction I can’t imagine getting from anything else.
The El Camino rumbles as we pull to a stop in front of a half boarded-up bungalow, but it does nothing to cover up the vibrations of the Rammstein music blaring from Mac’s pickup following close behind.
When I open the driver’s door with a squeak, the wind whips against my face, burning my cheeks as I set my feet on the ice-crusted street, wiggling my fingers into my thick sub-zero work gloves. The music stops, and Mac and Tiny step out of the truck looking like two Norwegian World’s Strongest Man competitors dressed for the Antarctic.
“Hey guys.” I nod and wave as the other four volunteers of my non-profit Break-the-Chains Outreach organization pile out of the other vehicle, pulling at their hoods and tugging hats down over their ears as we all approach and huddle together, steam rising into the frigid air with every exhale.
I glance at the houses across the street, a knot tightening in my gut as I grit my teeth, hoping the day goes smoothly because in this area, things can be silent one second and go south the next.
“Fucking freezing.” Georgia, one of my tried-and-true friends and steadfast volunteers, jumps up and down to warm herself up. “I couldn’t fucking sleep thinking about them out here last night. I won’t sleep again tonight. Why can’t fucking humans be humane? They should be the ones sleeping outside when it’s five below. See how they like it.”
I nod. I didn’t sleep either. We haven’t lost a dog to the freezing temps on our outreach yet, but I hold my breath when we go into every back yard, waiting for the worst.
I pull the zipper of my father’s old military parka all the way up and clap my hands, the tips of my fingers already cold. Everyone is bundled in layers, knowing it’s going to be a long, tough day, just like yesterday and the day before.
Everyone wears their reflective neon vests, with BtC OUTREACH VOLUNTEER printed on the back.
No matter how often I do this, it makes me nervous. Walking into back yards in these neighborhoods is dangerous, even when we do everything in our power to identify ourselves as friend not foe.
Mac and Tiny’s heads swivel around, scoping out the area. We met them last spring as we tried to feed a skinny pit bull in a back yard in one of the worst neighborhoods on our route.
It didn’t go as planned.
We ended up with a nine-millimeter pointed in our faces. Then like a miracle, two of the biggest guys I’ve ever seen seemingly dropped from the sky. A pair of three-hundred-pound angels that had enough street smarts to help me de-escalate the situation. And now they’re part of my team, too.
It’s bad enough these so-called pet owners treat their animals worse than the broken-down lawnmowers they leave out in the yard. But when we come to help the dogs, help that they’ve agreed we can give, some of them still give us shit. And sometimes shoot at us.
It makes me sick. If humanity will be judged by how we treat those creatures who wish nothing more than to love us, bring us joy and be loyal, we are fucked.
Hard.
In the most painful places.
I get messages and comments regularly on my social media posts about the outreach, saying we should just call the cops. Call animal control. Let the law handle things. Don’t enable neglectful owners.
I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve had to explain the cops aren’t coming. Animal control isn’t coming. That’s the reality out here. If these dogs don’t have us, they have no one.
Before I can open my mouth to give the crew instructions, a loud POP-POP-POP resounds from somewhere across the street. I barely have time to register it as a gunshots before Tiny and Mac cover me with their bodies.
The asphalt presses against my knees through my jeans. I peer out from my crouched position between them to see the rest of our group diving for cover in the bed of the pickup as my pulse races into the red.
“What the fuck?” I mutter. My hope that the day would go smoothly is dashed. But the show must go on, so I gather myself and use my best pack leader sort of voice. Fake it until you make it. “Everyone good?”
I count off the affirmatives before giving my six hundred pounds of human shield an upward shove.
“I’m okay, guys. Seriously. Just another day in Van Dyke for the adrenaline junkies of Break-the-Chains.” They pull back a few inches and I hear a few uncomfortable chuckles and mumbles from the rest of the group.
The gunshots rattled me; they always do. But I don’t let on.
“We have work to do. These dogs are cold, hungry and count on us. Let’s get this done and get out of here.”
I poke my hands between the guys’ massive bodies and press outward, spreading them like the jaws of life, then push to my feet, trying to keep my composure.
This work sucks but I won’t stop.
“One more shot and we’re leaving.” Mac looks around, scanning the houses in the direction of the gunfire.
That’s his MO—safety first.
Not me.
“Not until we do what we came to do.” I look toward the back of the pickup piled with bales of straw, then also nod toward my car. “Georgia, you and Nate grab two bowls, fill one with the dry food, the chew treats and a big heap of the warm stew. The other with just dry food. Tiny, get a bail of straw. Mac, grab the bucket of water. We all go in together.”
They all nod and start on their tasks. Even in this situation, with its inherent danger, even with the passion I have for the work, there is one thing…one person…who is never far from my thoughts.
Dutch.
God, for a guy I’ve never seen, he’s managed to make his way under my skin like no one has before. Even now I’m thinking about his last letter, about his parole hearing, and wondering how it went.
His letter was postmarked January 11 and it arrived yesterday, the 15th, so by now, he was either approved or denied and God how I wish I knew.
I know I’m just a pen pal. Someone that gives him hope in a hopeless world. Helps pass the time. And for all his compliments and kind words, I’m pretty sure out here in the real world, in real life, things would be quite different.
In one way, I feel like I don’t know much about him, but in another way, I feel like I know him as well or better than anyone else in my life. What I do know is this: he’s 27, was convicted of assault, had a few other juvenile and adult convictions for other minor violent and non-violent offenses. As for looks, I have no idea. James said he has dark hair and a beard. That’s all I know.
Dutch has mentioned a sister, but said the only contact he’s had with her in almost six years was a letter letting him know his father passed away year before last just before Thanksgiving. The lack of contact wasn’t even her choice. It was his, something to do with not wanting to ruin her life or put her in danger because of his choices. I guess that could be noble. But to me it’s just heartbreaking.
Even so, with that minimal amount of information, in my mind’s eye, thoughts of him send little butterfly flutters between my legs.
I shake my head. I need to stay focused. I can’t be daydreaming about a man I’ll never meet.
We’re all running on adrenaline as we move together though the yard toward the chain-link kennel we put up two months ago. Behind it, one of our baddest bitches on our route snarls as we approach, yanking her thick, aircraft-grade braided metal cable to its limit.
“Look at the fire in her eyes.” Audrey, one of our volunteers and a complete cherry when it comes to street smarts, backs away. “I think she’s going to come right through that fence.”
Danita is what I named the gray and white Stafford Terrier mix, but we call her Dani. A sort of female version of Daniel, which in Hebrew means, God is my Judge.
Her golden eyes speak to my heart.
So many years of being alone, hungry, and unloved have yet to be undone—if they ever will. If I could take her away from here, I would, but that’s not in our power. We do get owner surrenders as often as we can, but we can’t just take them. Word gets around. If we get a reputation for stealing dogs?
Might as well shoot ourselves.
Even though Dani is pissed, we don’t retreat. Once we have permission to do what we can for these dogs, we commit. We leave none behind, even when they tell us it might be what is safest for us.
“Maybe,” I answer Audrey, unswayed. “I fitted her with a new cable two weeks ago. She pulled a seven-inch eye bolt right out of the four-by-four we cemented in this spring. She thinks we need a challenge, I guess.”
Tiny clicks his tongue to get my attention, then tips his head toward the kennel as I glance at the back door to the house. “Daphne.”
My focus is on the resident and owner of Dani. She glares at me from the window, fierce and annoyed.
“Daphne,” Tiny says again, trying to draw my attention, “you need to whisper her before we all get up there. I see the red around her eyes. Not having a good day.”
I nod to the face in the window and give her a friendly wave. As much as I want to flip her off, making her angry will only make things worse for Dani when she bans us from her property.
Then I turn back to the task in hand.
“You’d be pissed too if you had to sleep outside in this fucking weather.” Even with the doghouse we provide and the straw we layer inside and outside the shelter, the suffering they endure out here damn near brings me to my knees.
Suddenly I have a memory of Dutch’s words from a letter last spring. I’d told him about my outreach program. His careful and deliberate, almost strained handwriting, every word clear in my memory, comes back to me as I take slow, even steps toward the snarling hundred-pound angry beauty.
I’m proud of you. I don’t know how you do what you do, but I wish I could help. I wish I could be there with you.
I wish you were, too, Dutch. I wish you were, too.
A few minutes later, once I’ve wrangled the beast, my crew removes the frozen water bucket and replaces it with a fresh one. Then they give her a heaping bowl of warm food, another one with dry, hoping it will last her until we come back in a few days, then top it off with some chew treats, give her some soothing words, and we all make our way back to the cars.
We pull down the street, ready to start all over again at our next stop. Then our next. And our next.
By noon we’re freezing and exhausted, but with each nudge of a head that needs a scratch, every jump up for hugs they only get from us, tails wagging, we are fortified. Resolute.
And heartbroken.
What we do would shatter most people with even the dimmest of light in their hearts.
Back in my car, we take a turn toward the east end of town and my phone buzzes on the console.
I look at the screen and see it’s my brother, James.
“Hey,” I answer, my entire body shivering, trying to crank up the knob on the heater, but it’s already on max. “You coming to help out today?”
James joins us on runs when Dad doesn’t have him working.
“Yeah, I was going to, but I got a call yesterday.”
“A call?” I exhale, blowing my warm breath upward toward my frozen nose, desperately trying to warm the prickles of frostbite out of my hands.
“Yeah, hey you remember that guy that helped me out? When I was up at Cleary?” Something in his voice sounds warm and excited.
My pulse races. I haven’t told James or anyone about writing to Dutch. I knew James had been to visit him a couple times, but I wasn’t sure the extent of their contact. I never mentioned Dutch. He was my secret to keep.
“I guess. Maybe?” I lie hard. I hate doing that to James. But I’d hate to let go of my secret even more.
“Well, listen, don’t be scared, okay? But I talked to Dad and Mom. They agreed.”
Uh-oh. “Agreed to what?”
“To give him a job. And…”
And.
And.
I say a silent prayer for whatever is about to happen.
“He’s going to stay in the little house. Until he can get on his feet.”
My skin prickles. Warmth fills every muscle in my body. My eardrums feel like they are vibrating. My pulse making a loud woosh-woosh-woosh sound.
The little house is what we call the guesthouse on the rear of my parents’ property. My mom always wanted to turn it into a getaway for her and her friends who are quilters, but she and Dad are always so busy trying to work, pay wages, chase down new business and hold on to the bit of security they’ve managed to create for themselves and our family with our small auto repair business. As a result, it’s never been a priority. Which means it sits empty… Which means…
I desperately try to focus on the road, but it feels like an electric current is crackling over my skin. Everything suddenly feels like a dream.
“He’s going to fix it up, come work with us. You know how Dad is with you. I can’t believe he lets you do your outreach stuff but he knew you were not backing down on that. But, I gave him my word to keep you safe. Dutch had a bad stretch, but he’s not a bad guy. You have to believe that.”
“I know,” I answer without thinking.
“Wait, you know? How do you know?”
Damn it. I’m the worst liar in the world. “Sorry, just…figure of speech,” I stammer. “I gotta go. At our next stop.”
“Okay. I’m leaving to go get him. See you later. Mom’s cooking her famous fried chicken dinner. Says he’ll need a good meal.”
I hang up the phone and stare at the icy road, feeling my core turn molten.
Holy shit balls.
Guess who’s coming to dinner?