Chapter 2
Emily
I flipped on the main corridor lights. The kennels lit up in stages—metal mesh and plastic crates, stainless steel water bowls, newspaper bedding already torn and pissed through by the early risers.
My job was to restore some tiny, temporary order before the doors opened for the public.
I walked the row, left hand tracing the clipboard, right hand pushing treat after treat through the wire with a kind of practiced tenderness.
First stop was Tasha, the ancient yellow Lab who’d outlasted two foster families and at least one rival for the title of “Shelter’s Most Obnoxious.
” I gave her a rub behind the ears, told her she was a good girl, and moved on.
Next came Nova, the orange tabby with the broken tail, then a chain of pit mixes with names like Cupcake, Diesel, and Mister Spock.
I said their names out loud. Always. It made the place feel less like a warehouse and more like a triage unit for the world’s unloved.
I reached Sergeant’s kennel and crouched.
He was a blue-nose pit, all muscle and nerves, and he shivered in the back of his crate even after a month in my care.
I made myself small, keeping my hands palm-down and eyes averted.
Eventually, he oozed forward, belly dragging, and nosed my wrist through the bars.
I let him sniff, then gently cupped the warm patch of his shoulder where the fur grew in weird from an old burn.
“Hey, Sarge,” I whispered. “Easy. It’s just me.”
A rattling cough behind me signaled Taryn’s arrival. “You’re early,” she said, like it was an accusation.
I stood up, straightening the already-frayed neck of my Humane Society polo. “I had a migraine last night. Figured I’d get a jump on the charts before the aspirin wore off.”
Taryn was one of those cheerful sadists who loved waking up before dawn. She balanced a tray of feeding bowls on one arm and used the other to open kennel after kennel, sliding bowls in, closing gates, moving down the line with the grace of a barista on a good caffeine day.
“You see the note about the biker appointment?” she asked, voice just a shade too casual.
I forced a laugh. “Yeah, it’s on the calendar. Noon. I’ll handle it.”
She glanced at me, eyebrow cocked. “You sure? They said it’s a whole group coming in. Like, club jackets and everything.”
A reel of old images played out behind my eyes, especially Dad’s friends passed out on our sofa, road dust and whiskey sweat, and the occasional black eye.
The way they’d leer when Mom walked past, or worse, the way they’d ignore her.
Teenage me, invisible in my own house, pressed against the wallpaper like I could osmosis my way through the Sheetrock if I held still enough.
“It’s fine,” I said. “I don’t judge until I see someone threaten a cat.”
Taryn smirked, satisfied, and disappeared into the supply closet.
Alone again, I rubbed my thumb behind my right ear, tracing the tiny paw print tattoo that never quite healed smooth.
I’d gotten it in Las Cruces at seventeen, a rebellion against my father’s world and a promise to myself that I’d only save things, never break them.
I finished my rounds, checked the med charts, and dialed into the routine.
The shelter ran on paperwork—color-coded intake forms, adoption applications, medication logs, all of them stacked in trays that filled up faster than I could ever clear.
I liked the crisp shuffle of the paper, the blue-inked checks in neat lines, the illusion that order could outpace entropy if you only worked fast enough.
A little after six, the first volunteer arrived.
She was a retired middle school teacher who told the same three stories every day and greeted every animal like she was the protagonist in a children's movie.
I let her in, swapped pleasantries, and went to the back breakroom for coffee that tasted like chlorine and defeat.
The clock ticked toward seven. I’d already logged two hours, and my nerves still hadn’t unwound from the mention of “club jackets.” I forced myself to focus on the present and the dogs to walk, the cat cages to bleach, and phone calls to answer.
No old ghosts. No judgments until the facts presented themselves.
I inhaled, exhaled, and started the paperwork for the morning’s scheduled appointments.
Out of the frosted window, the sky was finally bright enough to tint the linoleum blue.
The animals settled, their morning chorus replaced by the occasional whimper or the soft purr of a satisfied foster.
I leaned back, pressing my shoulders into the plastic of the chair, and set my jaw.
The world was always a mess. My job was to tidy my corner, even if the rest stayed hopeless.
The breakroom walls were plastered with “Adopt, Don’t Shop” posters, but I kept my eyes glued to the stack of applications spread across the laminated tabletop.
They were all variations on a theme: cursive in red ink, blocky print from an ancient typewriter, one written entirely in pencil and stained with what might have been nacho cheese.
My favorite was a printout creased so many times it had the texture of tissue.
These were the stories people told about why they deserved a living thing to love them back.
I thumbed through them, making blue checkmarks next to the ones that passed my personal smell test—no kids under five, fenced yard, no evidence of hoarding tendencies or unresolved legal issues.
The rest got stacked in the “Follow-Up” pile.
My system wasn’t scientific, but it worked better than most.
At 8:21, Marsha breezed in, trailing perfume and paperwork. She was the shelter manager, and her voice always carried, even when she whispered.
“Emily, got a sec?”
I capped my pen and braced for whatever fresh hell awaited. “Sure.”
She dropped into the chair opposite, spreading her own stack of forms. “The appointment at noon? The guy called to confirm. He’ll be on time, possibly early. I’d like you to handle the consult.”
My pen hovered over the checkmark box. “Alone?”
She shrugged. “If you want backup, I can pull Taryn or the security volunteer, but he specifically asked for you. Said you were recommended.”
I tried to hide my reaction, but a hot flush crept up my neck. I rolled the pen between my palms, willing my pulse down. “I’ll be fine. It’s just an adoption, not a parole hearing.”
Marsha studied me, her mascaraed lashes blinking slowly. “You don’t have to prove anything, Emily. If you’re not comfortable—”
I cut her off, voice flat and even. “I want the placement to be right, that’s all. And I don’t want anyone spooked by some guy’s jacket.”
She let it go, which was either a sign of trust or a sign she was overloaded and couldn’t spare the bandwidth.
We finished triaging the morning calls, then I excused myself to the locker cubby, pulling out my “public-facing” cardigan—a shapeless thing in hospital blue that signaled approachability without enthusiasm.
The rest of the morning blurred together.
I swept the lobby, returned voicemails, and fielded a walk-in from a couple looking to surrender an “accidental” litter of ferret kits.
I took their names, nodded at their excuses, and carried the wriggling bag to intake, where the ferret cage was already lined with fleece.
By 11:30, my hands smelled like antiseptic and rabbit pellets.
I rinsed off in the utility sink and checked myself in the square mirror bolted above the mop rack.
Hair still in a ponytail, but with more flyaways than before.
My skin was flushed, freckled from the heat, and my eyes had the red-veined look of a night spent scrolling rescue forums.
I squared up my cardigan, wiped my hands on a paper towel, and rehearsed my script. “Hi, I’m Emily. What brings you in today?” If you said it with enough conviction, people believed you actually wanted the answer.
The clock in the lobby ticked slowly and relentlessly, like a metronome for anxiety. Noon came and went. Every time the bell on the front door jingled, my shoulders tensed, but it was only the usual parade—retirees, toddlers in tow, one guy looking for directions to the DMV.
At 12:08, the bell jangled with a different energy. I looked up from the clipboard and saw him. He was in his early thirties, square-jawed, face a road map of old fights and fresh stubble. He wore a leather jacket with a crimson patch. His hands were empty, but his presence crowded the room.
He stood just inside the door, taking in the bulletin boards, the “Staff Only” sign, the polite distance between him and the nearest volunteer. I watched as he thumbed the dog tags at his throat—a nervous tic, or maybe just a habit.
He approached the desk, heavy boots quiet on the linoleum. “I have an appointment,” he said, voice low and even. “Medina. Dean.”
The name sounded familiar, but it took me a beat to place it—he was the son of the woman who’d called last week about a support animal. I shuffled the stack until I found her intake form. “You’re here for your mother?”
He nodded, eyes flicking to the binder, then back to my face. “She can’t make it. I’ll be handling everything.”
I uncapped my pen, blue ink at the ready. “Is there a specific dog you’d like to meet, or should I give you a tour?”
He scanned the waiting area—empty, for the moment—then said, “She wanted a shepherd, but I read about Sergeant on your site. The pit. Is he available?”
“Sergeant is a work in progress,” I said, careful. “He needs someone with experience. No kids, no small animals. He’s been returned twice.”
Dean’s mouth twitched at the corner. “That’s why I want to meet him.”
I liked that answer. It suggested a willingness to work for trust, not just collect it like a trophy. I grabbed Sergeant’s file and gestured for Dean to follow. He moved with the alertness of someone who’d spent a lot of time watching his own back.
We walked the corridor, animal noise swelling as we approached the kennels. I glanced over my shoulder and saw the way Dean’s eyes mapped exits and obstacles, the way he tensed when a dog barked behind him. I recognized it. Fight-or-flight didn’t always turn off when you left the battlefield.
At Sergeant’s cage, the dog pressed against the mesh, tail helicoptering, tongue lolling. I knelt, gave the leash a tug, and spoke in a soft, steady voice. “Easy, Sarge. This is a friend.”
Dean squatted beside me, close enough that I could smell the faint, not-unpleasant funk of gasoline and tobacco. He held his hand out, palm up, and waited. Sergeant sniffed, then nosed in, accepting the gesture. No hackles, no tension.
“He’s good,” Dean said. “He just needs to be seen.”
I blinked, surprised at the flash of emotion his words triggered. I focused on the tattoo behind my ear, paw print tingling like a warning bell. I wanted to trust my instincts, but old scars made the process slow.
We walked Sergeant to the visitation yard. Dean kept the leash slack, but his body coiled, ready for trouble that never came. The dog trotted at his side, nervous but hopeful, and I realized I was rooting for both of them.
In the sunlight, Dean squinted, then knelt to scratch Sergeant’s ears. “You think my mom’ll like him?” he asked, voice softer now.
“I think they’ll be good for each other,” I said. “But he’ll need patience. And a lot of structure.”
He nodded, then looked at me for the first time, like really saw me. “That something you’re good at? Structure?”
The question caught me off guard, and I smiled before I could stop myself. “I work in animal rescue. It’s all I know.”
We stood there in the yard, the blue sky too clean for the baggage we both carried, and for a second I let myself believe that maybe people weren’t as doomed as the paperwork made them out to be.