“Pray they weren’t home.”
JONAH
There'sa strange kind of silence that follows destruction. Not true quiet, but the absence of what should be there. No birds singing. No insects buzzing. Just the soft patter of rain on wreckage and the occasional groan of settling debris.
I pick my way through what used to be someone's life, boots crunching on shattered glass and splintered wood. The farmhouse is completely gone leaving only the concrete foundation and a scattering of belongings too heavy or too lucky to be carried away. A cast iron skillet. A waterlogged photo album. A child's bicycle, twisted like modern art.
The first responders arrived fifteen minutes ago. Local sheriff's deputies and volunteer firefighters who've seen this before, too many times as they search for survivors or bodies.
I kneel in the mud, my hand tentatively reaching toward the shivering golden retriever huddled against what remains of a wooden porch swing. The animal's fur is matted with dirt and debris, a small cut visible above one eye, but otherwise it seems miraculously unharmed.
“Hey there,” I whisper, keeping my voice low and gentle. “It's okay. You're safe now.”
The dog whimpers, pressing itself lower to the ground. Its gaze flicks frantically between me and the chaos around us—the flashing lights, first responders shouting, the shattered remains of what used to be its home.
“I know,” I offer softly, slowly extending my hand, palm up. “Everything’s changed. It’s scary.”
I’ve never been particularly good with animals. My apartment doesn’t allow pets, and my childhood was noticeably lacking in anything with fur thanks to my mother’s allergies. But something about this dog—the fear, the confusion—hits deeper than I expect. It survived when its entire world was torn apart.
The dog inches forward, nose twitching as it cautiously sniffs my outstretched fingers. I remain still, hardly daring to breathe. After what feels like an eternity, a warm, rough tongue tentatively licks my hand.
“That's it,” I encourage softly. “Good dog.”
I notice a collar half-buried under its matted fur. Slowly, carefully, I reach to turn the metal tag to see the engraving. “Max,” I read aloud. The dog's ears perk up at the sound of his name. “Hello, Max.”
A flicker of movement pulls my attention as Lila approaches, deep in conversation with a sheriff’s deputy. Their faces are grim, their words too low to catch from here. I give Max one lastpat before standing, my knees protesting after crouching in the mud so long.
“Any sign of the family?” I ask as they get closer, unable to hide the dread in my tone.
Lila keeps her expression neutral, but the tension in her shoulders gives her away. The deputy—a weathered man with salt-and-pepper hair and a name tag reading “Simmons”—removes his hat and runs a hand through his hair.
“Actually,” Deputy Simmons begins, settling his hat back in place with a quiet sigh, “there wasn’t anyone home when it hit. The property belongs to Howard Mercer. He and his wife were moved to Shady Pines long-term care facility about three weeks ago.”
Relief rushes through me, my shoulders dropping. “So no casualties?”
“None,” the deputy confirms. “That’s the one bit of good news today.”
I glance down at Max, who edges closer, pressing against my leg like he’s looking for shelter. “What about him?”
Deputy Simmons follows my gaze, his expression softening. He shakes his head. “Looks like nobody thought to take him when they moved Howard to the facility.”
“So he was just left here?” I can’t keep the edge out of my tone.
“They have a son, but he lives on the other side of the state,” Simmons says with a shrug that suggests he's seen worse. “I can give Animal Control a call to come get him. Safer there than out here scavenging for food.”
“Animal Control?” I repeat, feeling Max press harder against my leg. “What about their son? Can you call him?”
“If he hasn’t come to get him by now, I doubt he’ll come now.”
Something tightens in my chest as I look down at Max. Those soulful eyes meet mine, filled with a confusion I recognize all too well. One minute your world makes sense, the next it’s gone.
“What exactly happens at Animal Control?” I ask, even though I already know.
Deputy Simmons shifts, clearly uncomfortable. “They’ll hold him for a while. Try to contact the family. But with his age and the circumstances…” He trails off.
Max presses against my leg, trembling. My hand drops to his head without thinking.
“I’ll take him,” I blurt, surprising myself as much as anyone.
