13. Maggie #3
I wasn’t prepared for the caution tape, the lingering smell of smoke, or the blackened section of roof above the recovery wing.
Even knowing the animals survived, seeing the damage feels like a punch to the chest. I sit there staring through the tinted window while my fingers clutch the edge of my seat.
Second Chance Savannah has been my dream for years. Every late night, every fundraiser, every adoption event, every heartbreak and triumph happened inside those walls. Seeing part of it scarred hurts in a way I wasn’t expecting.
Alexei helps Mama out first, then opens my door. His face is unreadable to anyone else, but I see the concern in the way his shoulders hold too much tension.
“We can leave,” he says.
I look up at him, swallowing hard. “No,” I whisper. “I need to see it.”
He nods, keeping one hand on my lower back.
Someone spots me almost right away.
“Maggie’s here!”
The response comes from every direction at once. Volunteers appear from the front walkway, the side yard, the adoption room, and the makeshift supply station near the parking lot. People surround me with careful hugs, tearful smiles, and so many questions that I can barely keep up.
“We’re so glad you’re okay,” Sarah says, squeezing my hands with both of hers.
“You scared us half to death,” Emily adds, wiping her cheeks.
One of the college volunteers lifts a covered dish. “I brought lasagna because my mama said grief and recovery both require pasta.”
Another woman holds up a foil-wrapped loaf. “I made banana bread.”
By the time the crowd thins, my eyes are already stinging.
I look around and realize the community didn’t simply show up.
They poured in. Church groups unload donated supplies near the side entrance.
Volunteers walk dogs through the grassy field behind the building.
Local contractors stand near the damaged wing, discussing repairs, while stacks of lumber sit nearby, waiting to be used.
Near the entrance, someone has hung a huge hand-painted banner.
SECOND CHANCE SAVANNAH WILL RISE AGAIN.
The simple message undoes me. “Oh,” I whisper, one hand rising to my mouth.
“It’s beautiful,” Alexei says, his voice close to my ear.
Mam’s eyes glisten. “Baby, you built somethin’ special here.”
I swallow hard as I look at the volunteers, the dogs, the cats peering from carriers, the neighbors hauling donations, and the people I have loved through some of the hardest days of my life. “No,” I say, my voice trembling. “We built somethin’ special.”
Movement near the front desk catches my eye, and there sits Jules behind the reception counter like a king holding court.
One crutch is propped beside him while the other rests against the wall, his ankle secured inside a walking boot.
He’s directing volunteers, answering phones, organizing donations, and drinking sweet tea like this is an average day.
“Maggie!” he exclaims the moment he sees me, throwing one hand in the air. “Thank God. Finally, someone competent has arrived.”
Mama marches toward him with the authority of a woman who’s already adopted him by force. “What did the doctor say about rest?”
Jules points accusingly at me. “See? This is what my life’s become.”
“Boy, you just got outta the hospital,” Mama says, placing a container on the desk in front of him. “And I brought you chicken and dumplin’s, so do not test me.”
His face brightens. “I take back everything. You’re an angel, Miss Teresa.”
Mama pats his cheek. “I know.”
I laugh, and even with the ache in my throat, it feels good. Jules takes a closer look at me as I step toward the desk, and the humor fades from his face, leaving behind the truth of what we both remember.
“You okay?” he asks, reaching across the counter.
I take his hand. “Mostly,” I tell him.
Jules’s grip tightens. “Same.”
Neither of us needs to say more.
A volunteer rushes over carrying a clipboard. “Jules, the delivery from Savannah Pet Supply just arrived.”
“Excellent,” Jules says, straightening like the ruler of an extremely chaotic kingdom. “Please place the forty-seven bags of dog food next to the sixty-three bags already donated because apparently everyone in Savannah collectively decided I needed storage-related trauma after survivin’ a fire.”
The volunteer laughs and hurries away.
“Forty-seven bags?” I ask, glancing toward the supply area.
“That’s nothin’.” Jules gestures toward the overflowing storage space in the unaffected wing. “The online fundraiser passed seventy thousand dollars this morning.”
My mouth falls open. “What?”
“Turns out local news showin’ footage of a handsome shelter manager heroically survivin’ a fire inspired people.”
“You mean me,” I say, narrowing my eyes.
Jules lifts his tea. “Obviously me.”
Alexei appears beside me with a hand returning to the small of my back. “Your insurance company also approved emergency remediation.”
I blink. “Already?”
Alexei nods. “Roman encouraged them.”
I turn slowly to look at him. “What exactly does that mean?”
“It means your insurance company suddenly became remarkably efficient.”
Mama laughs from behind the desk. “Oh, honey. Don’t ask questions you don’t really want answered.”
A familiar bark interrupts us.
“Mr. Pickles!” I turn just as he races from the adoption room, her entire body wiggling.
I crouch on instinct.
“Maggie,” Alexei says sharply, his hand already reaching for my elbow.
Too late.
Mr. Pickles launches himself into my lap, and I laugh while Alexei mutters something in Russian that I’m fairly sure is not appropriate for polite company.
“You’re becoming a problem,” he informs the dog.
Mr. Pickles ignores him completely and licks my chin.
Jules smirks over his cup. “Looks like you’ve been replaced.”
Alexei looks deeply offended.
The fifteen minutes Alexei allowed turns into nearly two hours before either of us notices.
I spend the time talking with volunteers, reassuring worried adopters, cuddling anxious animals, and somehow avoiding lifting anything heavier than a clipboard.
Alexei reminds me no fewer than four times that I was supposed to be heading home already. I ignore him every single time.
Eventually, he appears to realize that physically carrying me out in front of the volunteers would damage his reputation, so he contents himself with watching me like a hawk instead.
Every time I bend too far or reach too high, his hand appears on my back, or his voice comes from somewhere nearby, reminding me to stop being stubborn.
As the afternoon sun begins sinking lower in the sky, I find myself standing near the damaged wing, staring at the blackened walls behind the plastic barriers.
The smell is worse here, all smoke and scorched wood and ruined drywall.
Cleanup crews have already removed debris from the hallway, but I can still see where the fire chewed through the laundry room, leaving the recovery wing scarred.
Alexei joins me without a word, standing close enough that his sleeve brushes mine.
“It’s worse up close,” I admit, wrapping one arm around myself.
“It’ll be repaired,” he says.
“I know.” I nod, though the words don’t make the ache disappear. “It’s just hard to look at.”