Page 11 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

He kept his paw on the laptop.

“Fine.” I sighed. “Tea first.”

Happy that the matter had been solved, Max removed his paw from the laptop and walked to the couch.

I poured my tea and followed, because apparently I lived under martial law now. Max had already climbed up and left me exactly enough room to sit.

“Well, I think today really showcased my range.”

Max gave a slow blink.

“Professional support staff. Amateur plumber. Floral maintenance specialist. Psychological operations, probably.”

He rested his head briefly on my knee before standing up, turning in a tight circle, and folding himself against my leg. Belgian Malinois weren’t generally known for lap-dog tendencies, but Max had long ago decided that if the lap was available and the mood was right, tradition could go to hell.

I set my tea on the coffee table and scratched him behind his left ear. “You know who didn’t thank me today?” I asked him. “Toilet guy. He didn’t even give me a nod. My standard for bare minimum gratitude is in steep decline.”

Max made a low sound in his throat that could have meant anything from agreement to gas.

“I know. It’s bleak.”

I told him about the rest of my day, because it was part of our evening ritual. I smiled when I mentioned that Mrs. Mendez had noticed the flowers, smirked when I said Moira had looked at me like I was a useful appliance. I grimaced when I told him how Devon and Indira had hidden in the supply closet to inhale yogurt and despair, and how I’d lowered myself to that as well. How the partner had called me Jacobson, then corrected absolutely nothing.

And I sighed when I admitted that I still, maddeningly, wanted the job enough to keep saying yes to every stupid, lowly request that was beneath me.

Max listened with his whole body, which was one of his more unnerving qualities. He didn’t wag his tail much during these night-time conversations, but his warmth against my body helped relax me after a long night.

“I’m not complaining,” I said after a while, which was only partly true. “I mean, I am. Clearly. But I know what this is. I know I have to eat some degree of professional shit early on. I just wish the shit came with dental insurance.”

Max’s ears shifted.

“And I know Mom and Dad would say I’m doing great,” I went on, softer now. “Which I really think is rude of them. They’re so proud all the time. It’s very inconvenient when you’re trying to have a normal amount of doubt in yourself.”

I picked up my cup and sipped my tea as I looked around my apartment: the stack of books on the floor, the wildflowers drifting in the breeze outside on the balcony, my mismatched furniture and art. I’d built this little life out of scholarships, thrift stores, side work, hand-me-downs, and an extremely active relationship with denial.

It wasn’t much by certain standards, but it was proof I was getting somewhere.

My phone buzzed, and Mom’s name lit the screen.

I was exhausted, but it had been too long since I’d talked to my parents, so I answered. “Hi.”

“Did you eat?” she asked without preamble. Behind her, Dad called, “Ask about the lock.”

They still lived in the Pennsylvania town where I had grown up, five hours away without traffic. It was close enough for detailed worrying and too far for either of them to fix anything themselves. We spoke every Sunday and at least once during the week when Mom decided the family group chat was insufficient evidence of life.

“I ate,” I said. “The lock still sticks.”

Dad appeared over her shoulder. “I can come up next weekend.”

“Dad, you’re not driving five hours to fight my landlord.”

“Wouldn’t take five hours to fight him.”

Mom pushed him partly out of frame. “How was work?”

I gave them the edited version: difficult, busy, still hopeful. I left out the toilet, the abandoned sandwich, and how badly I wanted the job.

“We’re proud of you,” Dad said.