7. Maggie
MAGGIE
I barely make it through the shelter doors before a seventy pound Labrador named Otis steals Jules's clipboard and takes off running.
“Otis!”
Jules’s voice echoes through the lobby loud enough to startle three volunteers, two cats, and one very skittish senior poodle wearing a cone.
Otis barrels past the front desk with several pages of volunteer schedules hanging from his mouth, his big paws slipping on the tile before he regains his balance and launches himself toward the hallway leading to the adoption offices.
Two volunteers chase after him, which Otis clearly interprets as support for his poor choices because he picks up speed and disappears around the corner with his tail wagging like he just won a prize.
I stop just inside the entrance, one hand still wrapped around the strap of my bag, and stare at the madness unfolding in front of me.
The shelter looks exactly like I imagined and nothing like I wanted.
People move through the lobby carrying leashes, donation boxes, clipboards, and cleaning supplies.
Dogs bark from the kennel wing. Cats complain from the adoption room like they’re annoyed by the concept of charity.
Phones ring almost constantly from the front desk while three reporters linger nearby pretending they’re not hoping somebody accidentally says something worth putting on the evening news.
Jules comes around the corner at a fast walk, breathing hard, one hand braced against his hip and the other pointed down the hallway like he’s about to prosecute Otis in open court.
His shirt is somehow still perfect, which feels insulting, considering the rest of the building looks like a tornado came through.
“Otis, if you don't bring your fluffy behind back here...” he hollers, then spots me and stops so fast his shoes squeak against the floor.
The relief on his face appears before he can cover it. His shoulders drop, his mouth presses together, and all the teasing leaves him. Then Otis reappears behind him carrying only half the paperwork, and Jules closes his eyes like he’s praying for strength he knows good and well he doesn’t possess.
“Please tell me this isn’t representative of how the mornin’ has gone,” I say.
Jules turns slowly and points at the dog as Otis races between us with the shredded volunteer schedule flapping from his mouth. “Worse.”
The sight is ridiculous enough to make me laugh. Otis skids near the supply room, where Rachel manages to grab the remains of the paperwork while another volunteer rewards him with a treat.
“That is absolutely sendin’ the wrong message,” Jules says, throwing both hands into the air.
Otis accepts his reward without remorse.
I crouch and scratch behind his ears when he trots back toward me, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Good mornin’, menace.”
His tail thumps against my leg, and the shelter noise wraps around me in all its messy glory.
Barking dogs, ringing phones, cages clinking, and paws tapping against the floor.
For the first time since the shooting, a tiny part of me unclenches.
Not enough to make me feel normal, but enough to let me breathe without feeling like my chest is full of stones.
Jules notices, and he steps closer, lowering his voice while his eyes move over my face, my hands, and my clothes, like he’s checking for damage he can’t see. “You okay?”
I straighten and brush dog hair from my jeans. “No.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah.”
“But I’m here.”
“That part I can see.” He reaches out and fixes a strand of hair that’s escaped near my cheek. “And for the record, you look like somebody dragged you through emotional hell and then handed you coffee instead of therapy.”
“That’s oddly specific.”
“I’m gifted.”
His attention slides past me toward Luka and the men positioned throughout the shelter.
Luka stands near the entrance with his hands relaxed at his sides.
One security man stays close to the front desk, another watches the hallway leading toward the kennel wing, and the fourth is outside somewhere near the parking lot.
Jules’s mouth slowly falls open as he takes inventory.
“Sweet baby Jesus.”
I sigh because I know exactly where this is headed. “Don’t start.”
He points openly toward Luka. “You brought a small military operation.”
“I did not.” I adjust the strap of my bag higher on my shoulder and try to walk past him, but Jules steps with me, matching my pace because apparently this conversation is happening whether I want it or not.
“Maggie.”
“They came with me.”
“That is not helpin’ your argument.” His eyes jump from Luka to the man near the front desk and then back to me. “Nothin’ says welcome back to the shelter like tactical personnel guardin’ the cat room.”
“I didn’t ask for them,” I insist.
“Somehow that’s worse.”
“Tell Alexei.”
“Oh, I plan to.” Jules lifts his chin toward Luka, studying him with blatant curiosity now. “Is that the scary one?”
“There are four scary ones.”
“No, I mean the scary scary one.”
Luka looks toward us. “I can hear you.”
Jules gives him a bright smile that has never once meant anything good. “Wonderful. The assassin talks.”
“I’m not an assassin.”
“That sounded exactly like somethin’ an assassin would say.”
A tiny movement tugs at the corner of Luka’s mouth before he controls it. Jules gasps and grabs my arm like he’s just witnessed a miracle in the wild.
“Oh, my word. He smiled.”
Luka folds his arms. “No.”
“You absolutely did.”
“No,” Luka repeats.
“Liar.”
I press my lips together and gently pry Jules’s hand off my sleeve. “Please don’t antagonize the man responsible for makin’ sure I survive the day.”
“He started it by being mysterious near the door.”
“I was standing,” Luka says.
“Mysteriously,” Jules fires back.
I shake my head and move farther into the shelter before the two of them decide to become best friends through mutual annoyance.
The farther I walk, the more the reality of the morning presses in.
The conference room has become a donation headquarters, with boxes stacked against every wall and supplies covering nearly every flat surface.
Bags of food sit beside folded blankets.
Cleaning supplies line the windowsill. Toys, leashes, collars, and gift baskets are grouped in piles that somebody tried very hard to organize before the whole thing got away from them.
I stop in the doorway, and the noise of the lobby fades just enough for emotion to sneak up on me. People heard what happened here and showed up. My eyes sting as they scan the piles because all that kindness sits in the same building where Irina died, and Ivy screamed for me.
Lord help me, I don’t know how grief and gratitude are supposed to live in the same body, but today they do, tangled up so tight I can barely tell one from the other.
Rachel comes toward me carrying a stack of envelopes against her chest, her ponytail slipping loose, and her eyes tired but determined. “Thank goodness you’re here.”
I drag in a breath and force myself back into motion. “That’s never a promisin’ way to start a sentence.”
She winces while glancing toward the front desk, where the phone starts ringing again. “Twenty-seven emails and thirty-two calls.”
“Please tell me at least some of those are adoption inquiries.”
“Three,” she says.
I stare at her.
She gives me a helpless shrug. “The rest are reporters, donors needing receipts, volunteers asking whether it’s safe to come in, and one woman who wanted to know if being on the news means our adoption fees are going up.”
Jules appears beside me, holding the rescued clipboard. “I vote we tell her Otis is available for interviews at a premium rate.”
Otis barks from the hallway like he agrees.
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Sweet mercy.”
When I open them again, Rachel is still waiting, Jules is watching me too closely, Luka has positioned himself where he can see both me and the lobby, and the shelter keeps moving around all of us because it has to.
That’s the thing about this place. Animals still need food.
Kennels still need cleaning. People still need answers. Grief doesn’t get to shut the doors.
I take the envelopes from Rachel and square my shoulders. “Alright. Let’s start with the emails.”
The next two hours disappear beneath a mountain of responsibilities, which honestly feels like the closest thing to therapy I've had in days.
By ten-thirty, I’ve answered questions about volunteer schedules, donation receipts, adoption applications, transport requests, insurance forms, and whether Otis should be permanently banned from administrative areas. The answer is yes, but it seems impossible to enforce.
I look up from my computer just in time to see Otis trotting proudly down the hallway carrying an entire roll of paper towels in his mouth. Nobody seems entirely sure where he got it.
“How?” I ask.
Jules leans one shoulder against the office doorway and watches the dog disappear around the corner. “No idea.”
I let out a slow breath before rubbing both hands over my face. The motion pulls at muscles I hadn't realized were sore. Everything aches lately. My shoulders. My neck. My head. Every night has been filled with fractured sleep.
I lower my hands and force my attention back to the computer screen. Work has always been my favorite form of avoidance. Animals make sense. Shelter problems make sense. Even when things go wrong, there’s usually a solution waiting somewhere if I work hard enough to find it.
“Maggie?”
I blink and look up. Rachel stands in the doorway holding another clipboard against her chest.
“Donation inventory,” she says, tapping the clipboard.
“Right.” I push back from the desk and stand.
The conference room still looks like a pet supply warehouse exploded.
An older volunteer named Gloria spots me from across the room and marches over.
“Oh honey,” she murmurs.
Before I can react, she wraps both arms around me.
I freeze before returning the hug.