Families move between booths laughing while children beg for kettle corn, and tourists stop to admire watercolor paintings. Everything looks normal.
One aisle behind us, Alexei’s security guy, Ivan, strolls past a booth selling homemade jams, pretending to look at peach preserves. He wears a dark baseball cap and a gray T-shirt,and he looks relaxed. If I didn’t know he was following us, I’d never notice. That should make me feel better, but mostly it just annoys me that I’m learning to spot surveillance.
We stop beside a flower vendor near the center courtyard, where Patricia immediately lights up when she sees us approaching.
“There are my shelter angels,” she says warmly while brushing dirt from her gardening gloves. “Y’all survivin’ over there?”
Jules exhales dramatically. “Physically? Yes. Emotionally? Jury’s still out.”
Patricia laughs before reaching beneath the table for a thick envelope and two decorative baskets filled with dog treats, handmade bandanas, and chew toys.
“Cash donations from several vendors,” she explains while handing me the envelope. “And the bakery stand down near the fountain donated gift baskets for tomorrow too.”
Emotion fills me despite the anxiety riding beneath my skin. “Thank you. Seriously. Y’all are the best.”
“Oh honey, that shelter matters to people.” Patricia squeezes my hand gently. “Tomorrow’s gonna be wonderful.”
I smile, but the reassurance doesn’t really sink in. Tomorrow feels less like an adoption event and more like a countdown.
We continue weaving through crowded aisles, collecting donations while vendors stop us every few feet to ask questions about the event. Jules somehow ends up carrying three tote bags, two decorative signs, and an entire box of dog toys while still managing to gossip with practically every human being inside City Market.
“Miss Eleanor says if one more Labrador puppy pees on her booth tomorrow, she’s filing emotional damages,” he informs me solemnly while balancing a basket against his hip.
“She says that every year.”
“And every year she still donates homemade dog biscuits shaped like little bones.” Jules sighs. “That’s community right there.”
I actually laugh. It feels strange after the last two days.
For a few minutes, the market almost distracts me. The noise, heat, and constant movement make things feel normal enough that my shoulders finally relax a little. Then Jules’s expression changes. Just enough that the humor slips from his face while his attention moves somewhere over my shoulder.
“What?” I ask.
His voice lowers instantly. “Blue polo shirt near the ceramics stand. Don’t stare.”
I keep walking beside him while pretending to adjust the tote bag digging into my shoulder. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a man standing beside a pottery booth farther down the aisle. Maybe in his mid-thirties, with a ball cap pulled low and dark sunglasses hiding his face. He shouldn’t stand out in a crowd this big, but the way he keeps watching us makes my skin crawl.
“You see him?” Jules murmurs.
“Yeah.”
I glance through the crowd searching for Ivan, but the gray T-shirt and fake interest in peach preserves are suddenly nowhere in sight—no sign of him anywhere nearby. My pulse jumps.
“I don’t see security,” I whisper.
Jules notices the tension in my voice but keeps calm. “Just keep walkin’.”
We continue deeper into the market, moving around tourists and vendor booths while my nerves get tighter with every step.
“Maybe it’s nothin’,” I murmur.
“Honey, men who casually browse pottery don’t stare at people like serial killers in documentaries.”
“That’s wildly unhelpful.”
“It’s accurate though.”
We stop beside another booth displaying handmade leather dog collars and embroidered pet bandanas while I force myself to smile politely at the older couple running the stand.
