Chapter 1
Chapter One
Laney
I’m screwed. Not just regular screwed—spectacularly, rent-the-auditorium-and-sell-tickets screwed.
I push back from the table and let my head fall into my hands, surrounded by the chaos of my financial reality. Bills spread across the wooden surface like accusatory confetti—tuition notice for my last semester of undergrad, utilities, and the truck payment I’ve been putting off.
My grandmother’s framed photo watches from the mantelpiece, her gentle smile a quiet anchor against the panic clawing at my chest. She knew I’d need this place after losing Mom—knew I’d need somewhere steady to catch my breath, to start again.
She was right, as always. Now she’s gone too—Mom’s mom, my last tether—but this cabin remains the piece of her she left behind.
A stubborn little refuge nestled in the trees, still holding warmth, still whispering you’re safe here.
This cabin is all I have left of stability.
It’s the only place that’s been constant since I moved here after Mom died three years ago.
Dad left when I was eight. My ex-boyfriend Jake took off the moment he realized I was serious about vet school and wouldn’t be available to hang out every weekend. People leave. That’s what I’ve learned.
But this place? These eight acres of mountain sanctuary? They’ve been constant. Grandma left it to me because she knew I needed something permanent, something that couldn’t abandon me or decide I was too much work.
Except now I might lose it anyway, because I can’t afford to keep it and finish school.
I’ve sold everything valuable I inherited except Grandma’s ring, which I’ll pawn before I give up on my dream of vet school, but it won’t get me close to six thousand dollars. I’ve applied for emergency student loans and was rejected faster than a bad Tinder date.
Which brings me to my current desperate scheme; it’s either brilliant or the kind of disaster that ends with me trending on TikTok under #PetSitterFromHell.
I eye the stack of handmade flyers on the counter. They read, “PROFESSIONAL PET SITTING SERVICES,” in my best block letters, complete with little paw prints drawn in the corners because I have the artistic skills of a determined kindergartner.
The plan is simple: make one-fourth of my yearly income during the two-week holiday period when people travel and need someone to watch their beloved pets.
All I need is enough clients willing to pay premium rates for loving, individualized care in a beautiful mountain setting where their fur babies can roam safely while their humans sip cocktails in Cabo.
The reality check is simpler: I have exactly zero clients so far, and time’s running out.
I pick up my phone and scroll to Joy’s number.
We were in community college together before I transferred to finish my degree, and she launched her Christmas wonderland shop.
She’s one of the few people who stayed in my life when everyone else drifted away, probably because Joy has never expected me to be anything other than exactly who I am.
Calling her for business help feels a little desperate, but then again, I am desperate.
She answers on the second ring, Christmas music playing in the background. “Jingle All the Way, can I help you?”
“Hey, Joy. It’s Laney. I hope I’m not bothering you at work, but I had a kind of weird favor to ask.”
“Shoot. You know I love weird favors.”
I explain my pet-sitting plan, trying not to sound as frantic as I feel. Joy listens with the occasional “mm-hmm” and “oh honey” that makes me remember why we stayed friends despite going to different schools. She doesn’t judge, doesn’t offer unwanted advice, just listens like my problems matter.
“So basically,” I finish, “I was wondering if you’d be willing to share my flyer with your customers? I know it’s a long shot since most of them probably aren’t looking for pet care and I’m up in the mountains, but—”
“Stop right there,” Joy interrupts, and for a terrifying second, I think I’ve overstepped.
“This is perfect. I have at least five customers who were recently complaining about not finding good pet care for the holidays. Can you email me your information? I’ll forward it to everyone I think might be interested. ”
Relief floods through me with just the possibility that this might work. For the first time in months, someone is offering help without making me feel like a failure for needing it.
“You’re a Christmas angel. Literally. If I believed in miracles, I’d put you on a Hallmark ornament.”
“No problem. Consider it done. Local businesses help each other around here. That’s how it should work.” She pauses, and I hear her greeting a customer. “Send me that email today, okay? As soon as I get it, I’ll blast it out to every customer in my database.”
After we hang up, I throw myself into writing the email—professional but warm, detailed but not desperate.
I highlight the mountain setting, my experience in a vet office, and the personalized care each pet will get.
By the time I hit send, the sun’s dipping behind the trees, and cautious hope edges out panic.
It isn’t long before my phone starts ringing.
The first call is straightforward—a couple going to visit family in Portland, needing someone to watch their elderly golden retriever, Max, and administer his medications twice a day. Easy money, and they seem relieved to find someone with veterinary training.
The second call is more complicated. A woman with a pregnant cat. Still manageable.
By the third call, I’m getting into territory I’ve only read about in textbooks. A man with a rescued parrot who’s extremely intelligent and gets destructive when bored. A couple with goats who have separation anxiety. Someone with a therapy pig who needs constant companionship.
Each caller sounds more desperate than the last, and I say yes to situations I’m not sure I can handle.
The reason isn’t that I’m overconfident.
It’s that the money they’re offering is exactly what I need to pay for school and allow me to keep living in this cabin.
And also because I recognize the relief in their voices when they realize I won’t hang up the moment they mention their “unusual” pets.
I know what it’s like to be desperate for someone to say yes.
But by the time I finish the last call, my hand is cramping from taking notes, and my head is spinning with the complexity of what I’ve just committed to.
In addition to a cat who’s about to give birth, I’ll be sitting a rooster with three hens, two mischievous goats, a pot-bellied pig, a six-foot boa constrictor, and a Yellow-headed parrot who apparently provides running commentary on everything, and several more cats and dogs including the elderly golden retriever.
And they’re all arriving tomorrow morning.
I sink into my rocking chair, notebook of care instructions clutched to my chest, still reeling from what just happened. In the space of one evening, I’ve gone from financial disaster to potential salvation.
All I have to do is successfully care for a barnyard’s worth of animals, some of which I’ve never actually handled, for two weeks over Christmas.
The smart thing would be to call some of them back, explain that I might have over-committed, and scale back to something manageable.
But the desperate, terrified part of me that’s been carrying the weight of impossible choices can’t risk losing this chance. This is my shot at keeping the cabin, finishing school, and proving I can handle whatever life throws at me without asking anyone for help.
I’ve been taking care of myself since I was eighteen. How hard can a few extra animals be? Besides, I love animals, all animals, that’s why I’m taking pre-vet courses. This will be great training. Despite my mental pep talk, my enthusiasm is flagging.
My phone buzzes with a text from Joy: How did the email blast go? Getting any bites?
I stare at my notebook full of animal care instructions, feeling the weight of what I’ve just committed to.
More than I expected, I text back. Looks like I’m going to be busy. Thanks again!
That’s wonderful! I knew this would work out. Let me know if you need anything at all.
I set my phone aside and look around the cabin that suddenly feels less like a sanctuary and more like the headquarters of an operation I’m not entirely qualified to run.
Tomorrow, this quiet space is going to be filled with the sounds and smells and chaos of animals who need me to know what I’m doing.
I close my eyes and lean back in my chair, trying to channel my grandmother’s practical confidence. She always said I was stronger than I thought, and more capable than I gave myself credit for.
Tomorrow, I’m going to find out if she was right.
The alternative—failure, financial ruin, losing the only stable thing in my life—isn’t something I can let myself think about.
I’ll figure it out. I always do.
How hard can it be? I tug Grandma’s crocheted throw over my knees and breathe in the faint, comforting hint of clove from last year’s forgotten potpourri.
“Okay, Christmas,” I whisper to the empty room, “bring me a miracle.”