18 #2
“Sure,” I say, approaching the Yorkie’s cage. “Good luck, buddy, be good.”
On the door, there is a paper taped up, reading One month at shelter. One month in, and already finding a home. It’s amazing, and I’m so happy for the cutie, but I move to the end of the hall and spot Sora lying on his side, wide eyes looking up at me.
Six months at the shelter.
If I’m being honest with myself, I know he very likely won’t be getting a new home. Senior dogs already have the least chance of getting adopted, second only to a dog with a disability. Combine them both, and Sora has no chance.
How many times has he lain here and watched another dog leave with a family?
I find Dainese at the desk, typing away. “Can I take Sora for a walk?”
She glances up, her sharp features softening. “I know, I feel bad too.” She reads my mind. “Go ahead, it’s muggy, but not hot, so he can stay out longer.”
“I’ll be back,” I promise, and erase the image of running to an airport and bringing Sora to Taina’s place with me.
I grab a stray ball and a harness for Sora and let myself into his cage. His tail does a single wag, like he smothered his excitement as soon as it built up. I get just one more wag when I wrap the collar around him and gently tug the leash toward the door, making sure I’m in his direct view.
He follows, and I maintain a slow enough pace he doesn’t feel like we’re rushing, but fast enough that he can feel free to be excited. I steal a bottle of water left on the windowsill in case he gets thirsty and head out.
We wander toward the back, descending a small hill leading directly to the sandy shores. It must be the weather, and the late-afternoon weekday, that has this side of the beach empty. Only our feet leave prints on the sand as we walk together.
Sora keeps watching the water, but I can’t tell if it’s with affection or fear. I scan the beach again, making sure we’re truly alone, then unhook his leash. I pop off my shoes, toss them closer to the sand, then jog to the tide.
Sora watches me for a while, letting the cool water surround my feet then disappear. Like a game of double Dutch—hopping in place, waiting for the best moment—Sora waits until the tide pulls back, runs after it, then runs away when it comes for its turn of tag.
I join him, running forward and then away until my chest burns and reminds me the last time I ran a mile was a year ago. I settle for tossing the ball in the shallow water for him while I catch my breath.
When the ball is lost, he simply runs into the water. My heart pounds for a split second, waiting to see if he’s able to swim, but it seems he’s experienced enough, so I drop down and sit on the damp sand, just above the tide line.
I keep glancing up at Sora as I pull out my phone and type in “Mason Maguda”—the name of the man who offered to buy Joshua’s share of Save a Paw.
Information I’m not supposed to have, but Taina knows how to dig, and I asked her to find it.
Unlike me, Mason comes from a long line of animal lovers.
His family lives and breathes this stuff.
Some are vet techs. Some, emergency surgeons.
A couple are dog walkers and groomers. Mason himself owned a private veterinary practice for years and now, according to his website, wants to dedicate his life to helping as many dogs as possible.
There’s a site called Vet-Vetter, where people post uncensored reviews—nothing filtered, nothing deleted. Every review under his name is glowing. Clients say he goes above and beyond. That there’s no one better.
And here I am, sitting on a beach with sand between my toes, competing against someone who’s actually qualified. A nepo baby with real credentials and multiple degrees directly related to animals.
It sucks. Not because he’s a bad option—because he’s a good one, a great one, actually.
Because even I have to admit—if it can’t be me, he makes sense.
But I love Save a Paw. I know the dogs by name.
I know the quirks of our plumbing system and how long it takes the heating to kick in in the back kennels.
I forced myself under Joshua’s wing, learned how to run payroll, fix the books, talk to donors, manage inventory—all of it.
Not because it came naturally, but because I refused to let the dogs go without what they needed.
Mason may have the resume. But I have the heart.
And yeah, I know that sounds like the kind of thing you say when you don’t have enough credentials to back yourself up. But it’s true. I would die for animals.
If this doesn’t work—if I can’t save Valerie from this wedding disaster—I’ll lose my shot at Save a Paw. I’ll lose the only place that’s ever felt like mine.
Like he heard me thinking of him, Anders’s name appears on my screen.
I answer on the first ring.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” he says. “Where are you?”
I look at the time, and it’s already four. “Long story, but I’m at a dog shelter.”
“Dog shelter?” he repeats.
In the background, a loud, young, excited voice echoes, “Dog shelter?” There’s a rustling of movement, and then, Olive has the phone. “Are you with Sora?”
“Hang on,” I say, FaceTiming her.
She picks up immediately, and I turn the camera to Sora playing in the water. Olive squeals, then snaps, “You said you’d bring me!”
“I still can,” I offer.
“Can we go now?”
“That’s up to your uncle.”
There’s another rustling, and I take the camera off, bring the phone to my ear just as Anders is back on the line. “Will you send me your location?”
“Sure,” I say, then ask, “How are you feeling?”
“Better, thank you for that.”
My cheeks heat at the warmth in his words, and I hang up before I say something like Thank you for existing.
It takes them about twenty minutes to arrive, and when they do, Olive—dressed in the cutest strawberry-print matching set—takes off running toward the sand and promptly face-plants.
Anders immediately scoops her up, inspects her for injury, and murmurs a string of comforting words I can’t quite make out. Whatever he says makes Olive’s slumped shoulders slowly straighten.
The sight tugs at me with a strange mix of nostalgia and loss—feelings that catch me off guard. It shouldn’t hurt, but it does. Watching them together reminds me of Taina and me—of the kind of closeness that fills you with burning warmth.
It’s been a long time since I’ve had someone to comfort, or someone who looked to me like that—for safety, for softness. The absence hollows out my chest.
When they approach me, I plant a smile on my face and remind Olive that Sora is deaf, so she should try to let him see her first.
She agrees, then shoos me off to join him.
Anders approaches soon after, his white shirt rolled at the sleeves so almost every inch of his biceps is revealed. I give him a wave, he returns it with a smile, before standing beside me, overlooking Olive and Sora.
“Olive told me about Sora,” Anders says. “Did you steal him?”
I chuckle, then sigh. “Just letting him out so he doesn’t see another dog get a new family while he sleeps on his own again.”
Anders places a hand on my lower back for comfort, and I lean into him. He moves so that his hand covers the side of my waist, and I’m tucked at his side as we watch the two play.
“Are you a dog person?” I tilt my chin to look up at him. “Or a cat one? Or anti-animal?”
“Not sure,” he answers. “Aunt Bethany always had allergies, so we never had pets. Some of my friends had cats growing up, and I liked when they’d come around while I visited their house. Never really been around a dog.”
“They’re angels,” I explain though he didn’t ask. “They love you no matter what, even if you suck as a human being. It’s why so many dogs get hurt. They’re overly trusting, and it leads to them being attacked, and injured, and still they come back to us.”
His features pinch together as he frowns and squeezes my cheeks. “You look so upset.”
“A polite way to say rough, because I spent hours showering dogs, and smell like one too. Sorry to your shirt, you’re going to reek in a minute.”