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“Liar.”
I press my lips together and gently pry Jules’s hand off my sleeve. “Please don’t antagonize the man responsible for makin’ sure I survive the day.”
“He started it by being mysterious near the door.”
“I was standing,” Luka says.
“Mysteriously,” Jules fires back.
I shake my head and move farther into the shelter before the two of them decide to become best friends through mutual annoyance. The farther I walk, the more the reality of the morning presses in. The conference room has become a donation headquarters, with boxes stacked against every wall and supplies covering nearly every flat surface. Bags of food sit beside folded blankets. Cleaning supplies line the windowsill. Toys, leashes, collars, and gift baskets are grouped in piles that somebody tried very hard to organize before the whole thing got away from them.
I stop in the doorway, and the noise of the lobby fades just enough for emotion to sneak up on me. People heard what happened here and showed up. My eyes sting as they scan the piles because all that kindness sits in the same building where Irina died, and Ivy screamed for me.
Lord help me, I don’t know how grief and gratitude are supposed to live in the same body, but today they do, tangled up so tight I can barely tell one from the other.
Rachel comes toward me carrying a stack of envelopes against her chest, her ponytail slipping loose, and her eyes tired but determined. “Thank goodness you’re here.”
I drag in a breath and force myself back into motion. “That’s never a promisin’ way to start a sentence.”
She winces while glancing toward the front desk, where the phone starts ringing again. “Twenty-seven emails and thirty-two calls.”
“Please tell me at least some of those are adoption inquiries.”
“Three,” she says.
I stare at her.
She gives me a helpless shrug. “The rest are reporters, donors needing receipts, volunteers asking whether it’s safe to come in, and one woman who wanted to know if being on the news means our adoption fees are going up.”
Jules appears beside me, holding the rescued clipboard. “I vote we tell her Otis is available for interviews at a premium rate.”
Otis barks from the hallway like he agrees.
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Sweet mercy.”
When I open them again, Rachel is still waiting, Jules is watching me too closely, Luka has positioned himself where he can see both me and the lobby, and the shelter keeps moving around all of us because it has to. That’s the thing about this place. Animals still need food. Kennels still need cleaning. People still need answers. Grief doesn’t get to shut the doors.
I take the envelopes from Rachel and square my shoulders. “Alright. Let’s start with the emails.”
The next two hours disappear beneath a mountain of responsibilities, which honestly feels like the closest thing to therapy I've had in days.
By ten-thirty, I’ve answered questions about volunteer schedules, donation receipts, adoption applications, transport requests, insurance forms, and whether Otis should be permanently banned from administrative areas. The answer is yes, but it seems impossible to enforce.
I look up from my computer just in time to see Otis trotting proudly down the hallway carrying an entire roll of paper towels in his mouth. Nobody seems entirely sure where he got it.
“How?” I ask.
Jules leans one shoulder against the office doorway and watches the dog disappear around the corner. “No idea.”
I let out a slow breath before rubbing both hands over my face. The motion pulls at muscles I hadn't realized were sore. Everything aches lately. My shoulders. My neck. My head. Every night has been filled with fractured sleep.
I lower my hands and force my attention back to the computer screen. Work has always been my favorite form of avoidance. Animals make sense. Shelter problems make sense. Even when things go wrong, there’s usually a solution waiting somewhere if I work hard enough to find it.
“Maggie?”
I blink and look up. Rachel stands in the doorway holding another clipboard against her chest.
“Donation inventory,” she says, tapping the clipboard.
