2
ALEXEI
The armored sedan glides through Savannah, its reinforced frame smoothing out every bump in the road. Outside, the city blurs by in gentle colors, live oaks draped in pale green, and the early spring air warm against my skin.
I sit in the back seat with Ivy beside me. In front of us, the driver keeps his attention forward, posture rigid, and hands firm on the wheel. He doesn’t speak. His presence is part of a system that exists whether Ivy notices it or not.
I was raised in a world where hesitation gets people killed, and mistakes don’t stay contained. Risk isn’t something you manage. It’s something you eliminate.
Ivy turns toward me, one hand braced against the center console as she talks, her voice filling the entire car.
“I think Daisy likes me best,” she says, her eyes wide with certainty. “Did you see how she followed me? She didn’t follow the workers like that.”
“You were holding treats,” I reply, my tone even and my attention on her instead of anything outside the car.
“That’s not the point,” she insists immediately, her nose scrunching slightly, the way it does when she’s determined to be taken seriously. “She looked at me different.”
I study her for a moment, letting the silence stretch just long enough for her to fidget. Then I ask, “Different how?”
“She knew I wasn’t going to leave her.”
There’s no doubt in her voice or uncertainty, just belief.
My jaw tightens before I answer, subtle enough that she doesn’t notice. “You don’t leave anyone who depends on you.”
Her entire expression changes at that, brightening into a pleased, quietly proud look. “Exactly.”
She drops back into her seat but doesn’t relax. Her energy is too high, and her thoughts are moving faster than her body can keep up with.
“And Maggie said Daisy likes to sit by people when they’re sad,” she continues, her voice turning thoughtful. “She said some dogs just know when someone needs them.”
I don’t respond right away and don’t miss how she said Maggie’s name. Familiar already.
“She’s really nice,” Ivy adds, glancing at me again. “And pretty. But she’s not old enough to own a whole shelter.”
“That concerns you?” I ask, one brow lifting slightly.
“Yes,” she answers, completely serious. “But she’s good at it.”
I look out the window briefly, tracking the reflection of movement in the glass, then back to her. “You’ve known her less than an hour.”
“That’s enough,” she says.
For her, it is. Ivy doesn’t divide trust into portions. She gives it fully or not at all. There’s no middle ground. That’s not something I taught her. That came from her mother, Clara.
“And all the dogs like her,” Ivy continues, her hands moving as she talks, illustrating everything as if I hadn’t been standing right there beside her. “Even the scared ones. That means she’s a good person.”
Her logic is simple. It’s also rarely wrong.
“It means she knows what she’s doing,” I reply.
“That too,” Ivy agrees quickly, already moving on, her attention changing as fast as it came. “But I still like Daisy the best.”
“You met all of them, even the puppies.”
“I know,” she says, her mouth pulling down slightly, frustration threading through her voice now. “That’s what makes it hard.”
She looks down at her hands, twisting her fingers in a way she only does when trying to solve something she doesn’t like the answer to.
