Chapter 32 #2
“No,” I say, working over the tiny body, refusing to give up. “No, we can save her. We can—”
The breathing stops.
The silence that follows is deafening. I stare down at the still form in my hands, this tiny life that never had a real chance. The weight of failure crashes over me like it always does, bringing me to my knees.
“No,” I whisper, then louder, “No, no, no.”
The sob that escapes me is raw, torn from somewhere deep in my chest. After five years of running this sanctuary, you’d think I’d be used to this. You’d think the losses would hurt less. But they don’t. Every single one feels like a piece of my heart being ripped away.
I’m aware of Maren moving around me, taking the baby from my hands. She doesn’t say anything. There are no words for this kind of loss, no platitudes that make it better. There’s just the grief, sharp and devastating.
I sit there on the floor, surrounded by the equipment that saves lives and the knowledge that sometimes, it’s not enough. Sometimes, despite everything we do, everything we know, and everything we give, it’s not enough.
The other five babies squeak from the incubator, alive because of our intervention. But all I can see is the one we couldn’t save, the one who needed just a little more than we could give.
When Maren returns, she’s carrying a small box with a paint marker and a round, flat rock resting on top.
I’m still sitting in the same spot, watching the five surviving babies sleep in their incubator.
Their tiny chests rise and fall in perfect rhythm, and I find myself counting each breath like a prayer.
“Luna?” Maren’s voice is soft. “Are you ready?”
“Ready” is a relative term. Am I ready to say goodbye to another life cut short? No. Will I do it anyway because that’s what we do here, because every creature deserves dignity in death as much as in life?
Yes, I will.
We walk out the back door into the late morning sun. The Gator sits parked right outside, with the keys already in the ignition. Maren climbs into the driver’s seat while I settle beside her, cradling the box in my lap like it contains something precious. Which, I suppose, it does.
The ride to the back of the property is quiet except for the rumble of the utility vehicle’s engine and the whisper of wind through the tall grass.
Our sanctuary spans forty-seven acres, and the cemetery sits on a gentle rise overlooking the valley below.
It’s peaceful here, surrounded by wildflowers and the occasional deer that wanders through, unafraid.
Tate kneels beside a small, rectangular hole he’s dug in the earth, his shovel resting against a nearby tree. His blonde hair catches the sunlight as he looks up at our approach, and there’s something achingly young about his face.
“Hey.” He stands as we climb out of the Gator. No elaborate condolences or forced pleasantries. Just acknowledgment. I love that about him.
I walk over and wrap my arms around him in a hug that he returns without hesitation. He smells like earth and honest sweat, and for a moment, I let myself lean into the comfort of him.
“Thank you.” The words come out muffled against his shoulder. “For this.”
“Always.”
Maren joins us, looking down at the hole with approval. “Perfect depth, as usual. You can head out now, Tate. Thanks for doing this.”
“I can stay and help fill it in.” He reaches for his shovel.
“No.” Maren pats his arm. “This is what Luna and I do.”
Tate nods, understanding. He’s been volunteering here for over a year now, long enough to know our ways, our unspoken rules about death and mourning.
“Go take your girlfriend out for lunch or something,” Maren adds with a small smile.
As Tate walks back toward the main buildings, I turn to Maren with raised eyebrows. “He has a girlfriend?”
“Oh, yeah.” Maren settles down beside the small grave. “I saw them in Estes Park last weekend. Cute little brunette. Way out of his league.”
“That’s not nice. You really need to stop calling him a nerd.”
“But he is. That doesn’t mean I don’t love him.”
“He’s not that bad.”
“The guy tried to impress that group of kids from Estes Middle School last week by demonstrating his ‘special bond’ with Finley. He ended up with talon marks in his scalp and had to explain to a bunch of kids why our resident falcon doesn’t actually want to be anyone’s best friend.”
The mental image makes me laugh, which feels strange and necessary at the same time. Leave it to Maren to find the perfect moment to lighten the mood, just enough to make this bearable.
We kneel beside the hole, the box between us. The dirt smells rich and dark, mixed with the scent of wildflowers and pine needles. This place has become sacred to me, holding the remains of every animal we couldn’t save.
“What’s her name? She was a girl, right?”
“Fiona.” I always name them. Every single one. They deserve that much—to be remembered as individuals rather than only statistics in our loss column. “Her name was Fiona.”
I place the box in the hole, with care, my hands lingering on the cover. Such a small container for a life, even one that barely began.
“Goodbye, Fiona. I’m sorry we couldn’t do more. I’m sorry the world wasn’t kinder to you.”
Maren places her hand over mine. “Rest easy, little one. No more hunger, no more fear.”
The words hang between us, simple and honest. We’ve said variations of them dozens of times over the years, but they never feel routine. Each goodbye is specific and personal.
I lean against Maren’s shoulder, grateful beyond words for her steady presence. She’s been my anchor since the beginning, the one person who understands this calling that drives us both to exhaustion and heartbreak on a regular basis.
“You know,” she says after a moment, “I was thinking we should get Tate a helmet if he’s going to keep trying to commune with birds of prey.”
I laugh despite the tears tracking down my cheeks. “You’re terrible.”
“I’m practical. Brain damage is expensive.”
The lightness fades as quickly as it came, leaving me staring down at the small grave. How do I keep doing this? How do I keep opening my heart to creatures that might not survive, that might leave me kneeling in the dirt saying goodbye to another box, another name, another piece of my soul?
The losses pile up sometimes. Not just the animals, though those are the hardest. But the people too.
Grandpa, five years ago now, taking with him the last of my family, the last person who knew me before I became the woman who runs a wildlife sanctuary and lives alone except for her best friend and a bunch of misfit animals.
My parents died when I was ten. Grandpa raised me after that and taught me about strength and resilience and the importance of fighting for things that can’t fight for themselves. But even he couldn’t stay forever.
Most days, I’m fine with the solitude. I have Maren, I have the work, and I have purpose. But sometimes, kneeling beside tiny graves, the weight of my aloneness is a physical burden, impossible to ignore.
Except I’m not alone anymore, am I? There’s him. My watcher, my secret, the man who comes to me in the dark and sets my body on fire with his touch. I don’t know his name, but I know the sound of his breathing in my ear, the weight of his hands on my skin, and the way he whispers that I’m his.
Only his.
The memories of his words send heat flooding through me, even here, even now.
I’ve never belonged to anyone, never wanted to.
I’ve been my own person since I learned no one can live forever, no matter how much you want them to.
But with him, in those dark hours when the world disappears and there’s nothing but heat and hunger, the sound of his voice, and his body claiming me, sometimes I wonder what it would be like to belong to someone. To have someone belong to me.
What would it be like to have dinner with him?
To hold his hand in public, to wake up beside him in the morning light instead of finding empty sheets and the lingering scent of his skin?
What would it be like to share this grief with him, to have him hold me while I cry over baby ferrets and the endless cycle of loss that defines my life?
Those are dangerous thoughts. He’s not the kind of man to offer comfort, and he’s made it clear that what we have exists only in shadow, only in secret. And maybe that’s safer, anyway. People leave, people and animals die, and hearts break.
“Come on.” Maren interrupts my spiraling thoughts. “Let’s get this finished.”
We begin covering the box with handfuls of moist earth, working in silence. The dirt falls with soft pattering sounds, covering cardboard and one small life that deserved so much more than it got.
When we’re done, Maren marks the spot with the small stone she paints with Fiona’s name. It joins dozens of others scattered across this hillside, a constellation of memory and loss.
We stand together for a few more minutes, looking down at the fresh grave. The wind whispers through the grass, carrying the promise of afternoon storms building over the mountains.
“Ready?” Maren asks.
I nod, though I’m never ready to leave them behind. But the living need us too, and five baby ferrets are waiting back in the recovery room for their next feeding.