Chapter Twelve
Dot
The first night with all the animals is not an easy one.
Everyone but Camden slept for most of the drive home, so we arrived with lots of energy for causing trouble.
Skinbad runs around the house screaming, Bo gets the zoomies, and Soot runs off as soon as we put her down.
Camden and I tear the house apart looking for her and finally locate her in the living room under the TV stand where she has, naturally, peed on the carpet.
For such a tiny cat, she can hold a lot of urine.
My heart unclenches. All that noise, all the chaos—it’s proof we brought something fragile back to life.
“Wow.” Camden wrinkles his nose. “Jesus, that smells bad.”
“She was probably dehydrated.” I cuddle the kitten to my chest. “Good thing Mira included some cleaning supplies in our order.”
“Our… order?” Camden asks.
Mira’s efficiency should impress me, but Camden’s tone makes me grin. He still can’t decide if she’s a miracle or a menace. Maybe both. But for someone who hates losing control, he’s letting me steer—and that feels new.
The doorbell rings.
“That’ll be the delivery guy now!” I shout over Skinbad’s shrill yapping. Bo adds her much deeper barking to the chaos.
Camden restrains the dogs, but the poor delivery guy can’t get a word in edgewise over the noise.
Mira ordered the essentials on the ride home: a folding crate large enough to accommodate Bo, a litter box with compostable pellets, dry food for the dogs—in the same brand the shelter used; I’ll switch it later, once they’ve had their vet appointments—and wet food for Soot, and a handful of cleaning supplies that we were running low on at the house.
Dad has kept old dogs for years. I know what to expect.
Camden sets up the crates while I feed the animals. Skinbad gobbles his meal down in three bites and immediately homes in on Soot’s dinner. She hisses and swipes at him. She may be small, but no one is getting between her and her chow.
Bedtime is a mess. Skinbad screams when we put him in Moppet’s old crate. He throws a tantrum until we let him in to sleep with Bo in her bed. I’m eager to get Cam alone again, but as soon as we leave the room, Bo starts barking.
“Let’s wait it out,” Camden suggests. He pulls me in for a kiss.
Bo doesn’t quit, and it’s really hard to feel sexy in my parents’ house with an anxious dog barking on the lower floor.
In the end, we pass out on the couch with the kitten sleeping beside us in Mitzi’s crate and the dogs less than ten feet away.
Camden sleeps in his boxers and his Abbott shirt, since his dirty clothes are in the dryer.
It’s not what I’d hoped for, but my heart is full. Soot purrs in her sleep, the dogs sigh against the floorboards, and for the first time in weeks, the house doesn’t feel empty.
* * *
We’re absolutely not supposed to do this. That’s what makes it fun.
“Operation Nudacris Two-Point-Oh,” Mira whispers from the phone tucked in Camden’s pocket as we cross the parking lot.
“Mira, shh,” I mutter, clutching my oversized tote against my chest. The bag shifts and lets out a muffled wail.
Camden winces. “He’s not even through the front doors yet.”
“He’s excited.” The tote jerks again, and I hiss, “You’re supposed to be undercover, Skinbad.”
Camden glances over his shoulder toward the hospital doors. “You know there are about twelve signs in there that say no animals allowed, right?”
“Rules are just suggestions for people who don’t have emergencies.”
He exhales, half defeated, half amused. “This is insane.”
“It’s love,” I correct him. “My dad needs a reason to come home. Skinbad’s the reason.”
Camden mutters something about regretting his life choices, but he pushes open the automatic doors for me.
The hospital lobby is all glass and polished floors—every sound bounces off the walls and multiplies. So when Skinbad decides to test the acoustics with one of his signature banshee cries, the result is apocalyptic.
The woman behind the information desk jerks upright. “Oh, my goodness! Is that—”
Camden doesn’t miss a beat. “My wife is in labor.”
“What?” I hiss.
If Skinbad wasn’t off the rails, I might enjoy that “my wife” part a tiny bit more.
He gives me a warning look that says go with it.
So I clutch my stomach, bend slightly at the waist, and wail. “He’s coming!”
The volunteer’s eyes widen. “Oh! Oh, sweetie—Labor and Delivery! Down the hall, second left! I’ll call ahead!”
Camden nods gravely, slips his arm around me, and hustles us toward the elevators like a man on a mission. Skinbad howls again, adding Oscar-worthy realism to our performance.
The elevator doors slide shut behind us just as the volunteer yells for someone to grab a wheelchair.
The second the doors close, we lose it.
Camden presses his forehead to mine, laughing so hard his inhales stutter. “You’re—” He gasps. “—you’re terrible. I almost believed you.”
“You started it! ‘My wife is in labor?’” I clutch the tote tighter, shaking with giggles. Skinbad growls at the movement, clearly offended by our lack of professionalism.
“I panicked!” he says between laughs.
Then Camden’s laughter slows, his thumb brushing the edge of my cheekbone like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. “Guess I got carried away calling you my wife.”
The word hangs there—wife—buzzing in the small metal box between us. My stomach swoops.
“I didn’t hate it,” I admit before I can stop myself.
Camden’s grin softens into something quieter, more dangerous. “Good to know.”
Skinbad chooses that moment to let out a shriek loud enough to wake the dead. The spell breaks. We both dissolve into laughter again as the elevator lurches into motion.
For a full thirty seconds, it’s just us—our laughter echoing through the elevator, Skinbad grumbling, the doors opening on the wrong floor before we finally reach Dad’s.
By the time we step out, my cheeks hurt, and I feel lighter than I have in weeks.
“Ready?” Camden asks, softer now.
I nod. “Let’s do it before the fake contractions kick in again.”
We sneak down the hall, trying to muffle Skinbad’s occasional yips. Every few steps, Camden shushes him and mutters something about getting banned from the premises.
When we reach Dad’s room, the door’s cracked open. He’s sitting up, awake, watching the TV without really seeing it. His eyes brighten when he spots us. “Well, look who it is.”
“Hey, Dad.” My voice wobbles. I hurry to the bed before I can lose my nerve. “I, uh… I brought you something.”
“Something?” He eyes the tote suspiciously. “Dot, what did you—”
Before he can finish, Skinbad erupts from the bag like a gremlin from hell.
Dad flinches back, startled—and then—he starts laughing. Really laughing. The sound cracks through the rasp in his throat and fills the whole sterile room.
“Jesus, he looks like Nudie,” he says, wheezing. “Where did you find this little monster?”
I can’t stop smiling. “Humane Society in Reno. His name’s Skinbad. I thought… you might need someone waiting for you when you get home.”
Camden hangs back, watching quietly as I place the wriggling dog in Dad’s lap.
When I glance over, Camden’s watching Dad with this look I can’t quite name.
Like respect, maybe. Or quiet awe. Like he’s seeing my whole childhood sitting there in that hospital bed—and still choosing to stand beside it.
Skinbad whimpers once, then settles, curling into the crook of Dad’s arm like he’s known him forever.
Dad strokes his odd little head, his eyes glistening. “You got him because he looks like Nudie.”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “You always said Nudie found you when you needed him most. So… I figured it was our turn to return the favor.”
For a long moment, none of us speak. The monitors beep steadily, Skinbad snuggles against Dad’s chest, and I see the first hint of real color in my father’s face.
A nurse pokes her head in, frowning. “You can’t have—” She stops mid-sentence when she sees Dad smiling. “You know what? Just keep him quiet, okay?”
Camden salutes her. “We won’t stay long.”
When she’s gone, Dad looks from me to Camden. “You two are trouble.”
“Always have been,” Camden says.
“Always will be,” I add.
Skinbad yowls as if to agree, and all three of us laugh—loud, messy, alive. For the first time, it feels like coming home.
Dad finally drifts off, one hand resting on Skinbad’s weird little head.
I stand there, watching the air expand his chest, feeling like the tight band around my heart has finally loosened.
The sight of that ridiculous naked dog curled up on my father’s chest does more good than all the medicine in the world.
Camden slips an arm around my waist. “Mission accomplished, Mrs. In-Labor.”
I nudge him with my elbow, smiling through the tears I’ve been fighting. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”
“Not a chance.”
We tiptoe out of the room like teenagers sneaking home after curfew. Skinbad snuffles softly in my arms, blissfully unaware that he’s now a criminal accomplice. Camden cracks the door open for me, checks both directions of the hallway, and whispers, “Coast is clear. Go, go, go.”
We make it back to the elevators without getting caught, though we both dissolve into quiet laughter halfway down the corridor. By the time we reach the car, the adrenaline has worn off, leaving only warmth—and exhaustion.
In the passenger seat, I cradle Skinbad while Camden pulls out of the parking lot. The streetlights sweep over his face in long, soft stripes, and for a second, I can’t tell if I want to cry or laugh again.
“That,” he says, “was one for the books.”
“It was perfect,” I whisper. “He laughed, Cam. Really laughed.”
He glances at me, smiling faintly. “Then it was worth it.”
I nod and look down at Skinbad, who’s already snoring. “Yeah. Every bit of it.”
We drive the rest of the way in silence, the kind that feels full instead of empty—the kind that says everything we don’t have words for.