11. Maggie
MAGGIE
Four days pass. Four days of early mornings, overflowing food bowls, endless paperwork, and dogs that need walking no matter what the world decides to throw at us. Life, as it turns out, doesn't pause just because you're pregnant.
By ten o’clock, Second Chance Savannah already looks like a tornado touched down inside it.
Three puppies yip from the intake room, two volunteers argue over laundry detergent in the supply closet, and Mr. Whiskers, our senior orange tabby with exactly three teeth and the personality of an angry old man, has escaped his kennel for the third time this week.
I crouch near the cat room doorway, one hand braced on my knee while I coax him out from beneath a shelving unit.
“Come on now,” I tell him in my best soothing voice. “You know good and well this little game ain't cute anymore.”
Mr. Whiskers glares at me with all the righteous fury an eleven-pound cat can possess.
Behind me, Jules laughs. “I swear that cat has your attitude.”
I glance over my shoulder. “Excuse you.”
“He does.” Jules points an accusatory finger at the cat. “Stubborn, judgmental, and deeply offended by authority.”
“I’m not judgmental,” I insist.
“You judged my shoes before eight o'clock this morning.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Because those shoes are a crime against humanity.”
Jules gasps and presses a hand to his chest. “See? Judgmental.”
Mr. Whiskers finally stalks from beneath the shelf with the dignity of a king returning to his throne. I scoop him into my arms before he can change his mind.
“There we go.” I scratch beneath his chin. “You sure do keep me humble, don't you, sugar?”
The old cat purrs against my chest.
Jules watches us fondly from the doorway, clipboard tucked beneath one arm. His dark hair sits in artfully messy waves that look magazine-ready, even though we've both been working since dawn.
“I've said it before and I'll say it again,” he announces. “If reincarnation exists, I want to come back as one of your animals.”
“You'd make a terrible rescue dog.”
“Rude.”
I push to my feet and grin. “You require entirely too much attention.”
“True,” he says without shame.
My phone vibrates in my back pocket. I tuck Mr. Whiskers more securely against my side and pull it free.
Alexei: Did the ginger tea help?
A smile sneaks across my face. I shake my head.
Me: It helped. You're all entirely too invested in my digestive system.
“He’s texting you again, isn’t he?” Jules asks, leaning one hip against the counter while swirling the ice around in his plastic coffee cup.
“Maybe.”
Jules snorts. “You've got that look.”
I look up. “What look?”
He points his iced coffee at me. “The one where your whole face lights up and you forget other people exist.”
Heat creeps into my cheeks. “I do not.”
“You do, honey.”
I tuck my phone away. “Mind your business.”
“My business is your business. Occupational hazard of being besties.”
I roll my eyes, but the smile refuses to leave my face.
Jules notices immediately. His grin grows wider. “There it is.”
“What?”
“That ridiculous lovesick smile.” His expression turns positively smug. “Oh, my Lord. Y'all are a real-life fairy tale.”
I huff out a laugh. “You spend entirely too much time watchin’ Disney movies.”
“Says the woman who practically communicates with animals.” Jules grins. “You're one bluebird away from bein’ Snow White.”
“You're impossible.”
“And you're in love.”
This time, I don't deny them. “Yeah,” I say softly. “I am.”
Jules grows serious, his expression turning thoughtful. “You happy?”
The question has more meaning than the two words should because Jules knows exactly how hard it is for me to trust. He knows every disappointment, every heartbreak, every reason I spent years convincing myself I didn't need anyone.
“Yeah,” I say again. “I really am.”
Jules smiles. “Good. Lord knows you deserve it.”
My heart squeezes unexpectedly. Thankfully, a volunteer rushes down the hallway before I embarrass myself.
“Maggie?” Sarah calls. “The Henderson family is here for their adoption appointment.”
I hand Mr. Whiskers to Jules. “Duty calls.”
The next several hours disappear beneath the usual shelter frenzy. An elderly couple falls in love with a senior beagle named Buttercup. A litter of abandoned kittens arrives from animal control. One of our foster families drops off homemade cookies. The phones ring nonstop.
By early afternoon, exhaustion sinks deep into my bones.
We’re desperately short on volunteers this week.
Summer vacations, family obligations, and the fear stirred up by the break-in and everything that followed, have thinned our volunteer roster even more.
At this point, our schedule is hanging together with hope, caffeine, and sheer stubbornness.
Jules emerges from the office carrying paperwork while I refill water bowls in the main kennel wing.
“We need more laundry detergent,” he says. “And dog food. Also, Mrs. Patterson called. She can only foster through Saturday.”
I groan. “Have mercy.”
A bark erupts behind me. Then another. The entire kennel wing erupts into noise.
I straighten slowly.
Several dogs pace behind their kennel doors. Winston's former kennel neighbor, a shepherd mix named Buddy, stands rigid near the front gate, his ears pinned.
“That's odd,” I utter.
“What is?” Jules asks.
“Buddy never acts like this.”
Jules glances toward the kennels, planting his hands on his hips. “Huh.”
Before either of us can think much about it, one of Alexei's security men appears at the entrance. Sam has been assigned to me for the past two days. Former military, broad shoulders, quiet manner, and a permanently serious face.
He removes his sunglasses. “There was a white cargo van parked across the street for maybe seven or eight minutes earlier.”
My stomach twists. Seven or eight minutes shouldn’t make me nervous. Neither should a white cargo van. Lately, though, it feels like my nerves have forgotten the difference between caution and fear.
“Did you get a plate number?” I ask.
Sam nods. “Luka's checking it now.”
I release a breath. “Thank you.”
He gives a single nod before returning outside. J
Jules waits until he's gone. “You think it's connected?”
“I don't know.”
And that's the truth. The constant uncertainty is wearing me down. These days, I notice every unfamiliar face, every car that circles the block one too many times, every strange phone call that comes through the shelter.
I force myself to exhale. “We can't live scared.”
“No,” Jules agrees. “But we also can't pretend none of this is happenin’.”
I know. Lord, I know. Still, life keeps moving, and so do we.
I scrub a hand across my face. “Well, the dogs still need feedin’, so I guess we'd better keep goin’.”
I turn back toward the row of kennels, mentally rearranging the rest of the afternoon for the hundredth time today.
I pause long enough to rest a hand against my stomach.
Nobody at the shelter knows I’m pregnant except Jules.
Not even Mama. The secret feels enormous and precious all at once, filling me equally with joy and terror every time I think about it.
He gives me a pointed look. “You need a break.”
I unlatch the next kennel and step inside. “I'm fine.”
“You look tired,” he says, following me in with the cleaning bucket.
I shoot him a look over my shoulder while replacing a water bowl. “I always look tired.”
“Fair point.” Jules grins.
I bump his shoulder with mine as I pass. “We can both take a break when closing time gets here.”
Jules rolls his eyes and sprays disinfectant onto the kennel floor. “You said that yesterday.”
“And the day before.” I reach for the mop leaning against the wall.
“Exactly.” He shakes his head. “My point stands.”
I push open the storage room door. The familiar scent of kibble, disinfectant, and cedar shavings greets me. For years, this place has been my whole world. Even now, with my life split between the shelter and the Agapov mansion, walking through these halls still feels like coming home.
That's why the faint smell that reaches me a moment later makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I stop in the doorway and draw in another breath.
Smoke.
It's faint enough that I nearly convince myself I'm imagining it.
Jules notices me standing in the doorway and frowns. “What’s wrong?”
I turn slowly toward the hallway. “Do you smell that?”
He lifts his head and sniffs the air. Then his forehead furrows. “Maybe somebody burned popcorn again?”
I stare toward the kennel wing as a knot forms low in my stomach. “No,” I whisper. “That ain't popcorn.”
Jules takes one look at me and sets the cleaning supplies on the floor.
“Stay here,” he says, already moving.
As if I'm actually going to do that. I follow so closely I nearly step on the backs of his sneakers.
The scent grows stronger with every step we take down the hallway. By the time we reach the intersection leading toward the medical isolation area, thin gray ribbons of smoke snake across the ceiling.
Dread slams into me.
“Oh God.” Jules swears under his breath and breaks into a run.
We round the corner and stop. Smoke pours from beneath the door leading into the recovery wing. For one impossible moment, my brain rejects the sight entirely. This is our shelter. Our safe place. Things like this aren't supposed to happen here.
Then instinct takes over.
“Sarah!” I yell, spinning toward the front offices. “Get everybody out and call 911! Now!”
Panic tears through the building almost at once.
Volunteers pour out of offices and exam rooms while dogs erupt into frantic barking that bounces off every wall.
Cats begin yowling from the adoption room, their cries blending with ringing phones, raised voices, and the shrill wail of the fire alarm as it finally kicks on overhead.
Questions fly from every direction.
“Maggie, what's happening?”
“Is it a fire?”
“What do we do?”
Jules claps his hands loudly. “Everybody listen!” he shouts. “Evacuation plan. Just like the drills. Carriers first. Leashes second. Move, people!”