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“She wanted to remind you that ginger candies help nausea and that Maggie won’t eat them unless someone puts them directly in front of her.”

I exhale slowly. “Stop at the deli.”

The deli Maggie likes sits three blocks from the shelter beneath striped awnings faded by years of Savannah heat. A bell rings loudly overhead when I enter, and conversation quiets the way it always does when people recognize me but are uncertain whether they should acknowledge it.

I ignore the attention and place Maggie's order. Turkey and avocado on toasted sourdough. Extra pickles. Sweet tea. Fruit. Crackers. Ginger candies because Mrs. Bennett has apparently appointed herself as commander of Maggie's stomach.

I add chicken salad, then remove it when I remember Maggie nearly fled the kitchen two days ago when Mrs. Bennett reheated leftover chicken.

Pregnancy changes many things. It seems chicken is one of them.

Back in the SUV, I place the bag beside me and pull out my phone, sending Maggie a text.

Me: You have to eat something.

Me: Maggie.

Me: Answer me.

Nothing.

Unease stirs beneath my skin. Ordinarily, I would think little of it. Maggie spends her days surrounded by barking dogs, ringing telephones, volunteers, and the endless emergencies that come with running an animal shelter.

Today, however, feels different.

I call her, but the call goes straight to voicemail. My jaw clenches.

I immediately dial Sam. No answer. That gives me pause. Sam always answers. I call again and listen as the phone rings unanswered. Once. Twice. Five times.

Nothing.

Unease grips me. Something’s wrong.

“Drive faster,” I tell Luka.

He says nothing, but the SUV accelerates.

Three minutes later, we turn onto the street leading toward Second Chance Savannah. I smell smoke before I see it.

At first, my mind rejects the information. Smoke can come from traffic, construction, restaurants, or any number of ordinary sources. Then the shelter comes into view. Black smoke pours from the rear roofline. The parking lot is full of people, animals, and fear.

Volunteers run across the pavement carrying carriers and leashes. Dogs bark from makeshift holding areas beneath the trees. Cats cry from stacked crates lined along the sidewalk. One of my guards stands near the curb with his phone pressed to his ear while another helps a volunteer drag a panicked shepherd away from the entrance.

For one horrible second, the world narrows to the smoke. Then one of my men sees the SUV and runs toward me.

“Boss!” he calls out before the vehicle has fully stopped.

I’m out of the SUV before the door finishes opening.

“Where’s Maggie?”

The look on his face tells me before his words do. My blood turns to ice.

“Maggie's still inside!” he shouts.

I sprint toward the shelter with Luka on my heels. He grabs my arm just before I reach the entrance.

“Boss, wait. Fire department's en route.”