Page 6 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

“Obviously.”

Max, having finished greeting me, shifted into work mode. He meandered the room with that smooth, purposeful gait a Belgian Malinois had even at rest. He was older and thicker through the chest than he’d been in his service photos, and a little more silver around the muzzle, but he still moved with unnerving competence.

“He ran point on the new shepherd mix for twenty minutes.”

“Was it successful?” I asked.

“She didn’t wail at the window when the UPS guy came, so by my standards, we’re looking at a miracle.”

I dropped my bag on the chair by the door and leaned down to rub Rocko’s ears when he nosed my thigh. He was adorable with his serious face and velvety brown eyes. Socko, on the other hand, arrived in a wave of pale fur, pressing her golden-retriever face into my hand as if she had never doubted that the world would love her back.

“Hi, beautiful,” I said. “You’re still the prettiest girl in the tri-state area.”

Avery snorted. “Steve heard that.”

Steve didn’t move, but she cast a judgmental look my way.

I followed Avery into the kitchen, Max at my heel now that he’d concluded his perimeter sweep. He sat beside his food station without being told, straight-backed and attentive, ears angled to catch my voice from his left side.

Seeing that always made my heart hurt a little.

Max had lost about forty percent of the hearing in his right ear while protecting his handler from an IED. He hadn’t come to me with a dramatic movie montage and a tragic soundtrack. He’d come with a neatly typed file, a list of commands, a stiff watchfulness, and the exhausted dignity of an animal who had already done more in his lifetime than most people ever would.

The plan had been to foster him temporarily, but then he’d looked at me with those dark, intent eyes. So, here I was, two years later, buying him butcher meat I couldn’t really afford and threatening legal action against anyone who dared refer to him as “just a dog.”

Avery set two bowls on the counter, one for me, one for Max.

“You’re aware,” I said, eyeing the glossy chunks of meat and vegetables in his dish, “that he’s eating better than I am during the day when he’s here.”

“He has a job.”

“So do I.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Your job involves plumbing, changing out dead flowers, and making copies. Not to mention being called the wrong name by men who earn enough money yet still tiny, joyless salads assembled by someone else.”

I groaned. “I was called Jacobson today.”

“You see? Today, Max mentored a former service dog who thinks ceiling fans are a government plot while men who still wear cuff links bullied you.”

I leaned against the counter and crossed my arms. “When you put it that way, my career path feels less inspiring.”

“It should. Sit down. Eat.”

There were very few people I allowed to boss me around when I was this tired, and Avery was one of them. That was partly why our friendship worked. She possessed the sort of wealth that made others become weird as soon as they learned about it, but she’d chosen a life that involved overworked volunteers and animal bodily fluids on a near-daily basis. There was something deeply soothing about a woman who could’ve made a career out of being frivolous but had instead built herself into a person dogs trusted implicitly.

She spooned thick, rich chili into my bowl, sprinkled some shredded cheese over it, and slapped a hunk of buttered, homemade bread the size of a legal pad onto a plate.

“Oh, I could kiss you,” I said.

“Please don’t. Socko gets jealous.”

Hearing her name, Socko trotted into the kitchen. Avery set down Max’s bowl and waited while he held his sit.

“Okay.”

He moved with elegant restraint, lowering his head to eat without an ounce of the desperate gulping some of her newer rescue cases had. It wasn’t that he lacked appetite, but that he had self-respect. Max believed very strongly in composure.

I picked up my spoon and stirred my food.