Page 5 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

Moira looked down at my abandoned sandwich on the counter.

“Actually, leave them. Go,” she said.

“I can stay.”

“You look like a Victorian orphan with a LinkedIn profile. Go home, Quinn.”

I signed two get-well cards on my way out, checked the flowers and made sure the break-room fridge door was latched, then left the building with the other lucky interns in that post-work stagger particular to people whose salaries required side hustles and whose ambitions required denial.

I hadn’t come this far to be forgettable.

2

QUINN

MAX CLOCKS IN AS UNION REP

The walk to Avery’s was long enough that I could convince myself it counted as exercise, but mostly because it was too short to justify using the subway. By the time I got there, the afternoon light had gone syrupy over the sidewalk, and I was tired enough to feel it in my bones.

Avery lived in a West Village townhouse that made you briefly envy generational wealth before remembering the moral complications. Avery’s family money showed up less in the décor than in the square footage, the private outdoor garden, and the fact that her mudroom was better organized than most boutique hotels.

The townhouse had been renovated within an inch of its life in the last hundred years, but Avery had somehow made it feel less like a showpiece and more like a very expensive command center for emotionally complicated dogs.

There were original moldings, a marble fireplace, and approximately twelve thousand dollars’ worth of custom cabinetry devoted entirely to leashes, supplements, and freeze-dried liver.

I barely had one foot on the first step before the door burst open and Max came barreling out like a retired general who had just spotted a beloved but incompetent junior officer.

“There’s my man,” I said.

He reached me in three strides and planted himself against my legs with so much force I had to grab the doorframe to stay upright. He started his snuffling inspection. With a chuff of approval, he leaned his full body against me.

Avery leaned against the doorway, the golden twilight catching her buzz cut and the dog hair on her black sweatshirt. “He missed you. Also, Jocko stole Steve’s enrichment toy, and I had to mediate a hostage situation.”

I laughed and bent to kiss the top of Max’s head. “And how was my handsome war hero?”

Max looked up at me with the grave dignity of a dog who had once served his country and now had to live with my infuriating baby voice.

Avery snorted and moved aside to let us in. “Bad news. He’s been radicalized by free-range turkey treats.”

“That’s how they get you.”

The scent of dogs and shampoo greeted me, but whatever Avery had in the slow cooker smelled so delicious, I considered proposing marriage.

Avery’s house was more a working democracy run by canines with strong opinions and excellent muscle definition than it was a house. Years ago, she’d converted the front room into something between a training space and a very tasteful hostage negotiation site. Raised cots lined one wall, bins of leashes and toys stacked neatly against another, and a whiteboard next to the kitchen archway covered in notes written in Avery’s blocky handwriting.

ROCKO: no duck treats, soft stool

SOCKO: angel, obviously

JOCKO: enrichment first, then visitors

STEVE: wanted for war crimes

Steve, who was, in fact, female, raised her head from the bed near the radiator and stared at me unblinkingly.

“Good evening to you too,” I said.

“She knocked over an entire basket of clean towels because I told her she couldn’t have another marrow bone before dinner,” Avery said as she closed the door. “Naturally, she viewed this as oppression.”