Half distracted and still thinking about Alexei, I stop at the row of mailboxes near the front entrance and pull mine open. That’s when I notice the small, white envelope wedged between a grocery store flyer and my electric bill.
My name is written across the front in thick black ink. A strange chill runs over my skin. Slowly, I pull the envelope from the mailbox and turn it over carefully in my hands. There’s no stamp. No return address. Nothing except my name written in harsh block letters that make my pulse start beating faster.
I slide one finger beneath the flap and pull out the folded piece of paper hidden inside. My jaw clenches the second I unfold it. It’s Ivy’s drawing. The one she made at the shelter last week with bright crooked flowers, a giant yellow sun in the corner, and a lopsided dog she proudly insisted was Winston, even though it looked more like a potato with legs. Only now thick black marker slashes across the page in uneven jagged letters.
SHE DOESN’T BELONG TO YOU.
I feel the color drain from my face. My fingers tighten around the paper as I stare at Ivy’s cheerful drawing, now ruined by those words, while my heartbeat pounds in my ears.
No. No, no, no.
I look over my shoulder instinctively, suddenly far too aware of how exposed the lobby feels. Mrs. Patterson still hums to herself near the elevator, completely oblivious, while traffic moves outside beyond the glass entrance doors. Everything looks normal, but my pulse won’t slow down.
This is personal, and it just became far more terrifying than the broken shelter door, the damage to Mama’s car, or my sweatshirt left folded on her front seat like some twisted warning. Because now they’re watching Ivy.
14
MAGGIE
The shelter sounds like chaos before I even walk through the front doors. Dogs bark from every direction while volunteers drag folding tables across the concrete floors. Donation boxes are piled beside the front desk, and someone in the back drops an entire container of tennis balls that sends three puppies skidding across the lobby after them.
Most days, the madness would make me smile faster. Today, my stomach stays tight.
The folded drawing in my shelter bag seems to get heavier by the minute. I swear I can feel those black words pressing through the paper, even without looking at them.
SHE DOESN’T BELONG TO YOU.
I spent the entire drive over here trying to decide whether to call Alexei immediately or wait until tonight, when I can explain it face-to-face. Every time I picture his reaction, my pulse jumps all over again. He warned me about the shelter and people watching, and now someone left a message about Ivy in my mailbox.
My stomach churns with unease.
“Sweet tea and salvation,” Jules mutters beside me while staring at the disaster unfolding near intake. “One adoption event and suddenly everybody loses all common sense.”
I laugh under my breath while flipping through the clipboard in my hands. “You say that every single time.”
“Because every single time, I’m right.”
Another volunteer rushes past, carrying blankets, while someone near grooming argues lovingly with an elderly bulldog who refuses to step onto a scale. Somewhere down the kennel corridor, Ivy laughs loud enough to rise above the barking, and affection blooms inside me before I even see her.
She sits cross-legged on the floor beside the puppy enclosure, wearing denim overalls with one strap hanging crookedly off her shoulder, while a golden retriever puppy happily chews on the end of her braid. Irina kneels beside her, trying unsuccessfully to rescue the poor braid from puppy teeth.
“No, no,” Irina says through a tired laugh thickened by her Russian accent. “We cannot eat children.”
“But Snowball likes hair,” Ivy argues while rubbing the puppy’s ears. “Maybe she thinks it’s spaghetti.”
“That’s not comforting,” Jules calls out from behind me.
Ivy immediately grins. “Hi Jules.”
“Honey, if that dog swallows your hair, your father is going to bury all of us underneath this shelter,” he replies.
“Papa says violence isn’t the answer.”
Jules snorts. “Your father says that while looking like a man who definitely knows several answers involving violence.”
Irina presses her lips together, trying not to smile, while I walk over and crouch beside Ivy, brushing the puppy gently away from her braid.
“You helpin’ today?” I ask.
