CHAPTER 1
Felicity “Flick” Patel
“What advice do you have for listeners eager to try their hand at yarn dyeing?” the podcast host asks in my ear.
I step over a tree branch that came down with last night’s storm and zip my windbreaker up to my neck. Even though it’s spring, the wind coming off the ocean and onto Pine Island is fierce. The cold makes my knuckles ache—a warning I’ve learned not to ignore. Five years with rheumatoid arthritis has taught me to read my body’s signals like weather forecasts.
“Don’t be afraid to experiment,” the podcast’s guest—Robin something—says. “Embrace the unexpected and let your creativity guide you. And remember, even if a dye job doesn’t turn out exactly as planned, each skein tells its own unique story—a story that’s just waiting to be woven into something beautiful.”
I nod in agreement, even though no one can see me and this episode was probably recorded days ago. My phone buzzes in my pocket—probably another Etsy order. Business has been wonderfully crazy lately, orders coming in faster than I can fill them. Though that’s not saying much when your workspace is a kitchen and your staff consists of one person with cranky joints.
As the outro music plays, I realize I’ve reached the island’s docks. The fog is lifting, revealing fishing boats bobbing in their slips and the distant outline of the mainland. I pause at the end of the pier, my morning ritual before the chaos of the day begins. The salt air fills my lungs, and for a moment, everything feels peaceful.
Well, almost peaceful. That nagging feeling I’ve had all week is still there, like an itch between my shoulder blades I can’t quite reach. It’s probably nothing. Too much caffeine, not enough sleep. The usual small business owner cocktail of anxiety.
My phone buzzes again. This time I check it—another Instagram notification. I’ve been getting more followers lately, which is great for business. Opening the app while walking, I see it’s a comment from @JustRaveled1018.
Beautiful color work as always! That sunset skein from last week was pure poetry. You really capture the Pine Island essence in every strand.
I smile despite myself. It’s always nice when people notice the little details. Though... I frown, scrolling back through my posts. I hadn’t posted any sunset skeins last week. Just the ocean-inspired blues and some experimental speckled yarns. And I definitely don’t remember mentioning Pine Island specifically in any recent posts. I try to keep my exact location a bit vague—internet safety 101.
Maybe they’re confusing me with another dyer? I have had a lot of new followers lately. Some of them are probably following multiple yarn accounts. That must be it.
Time to head back. I turn and start walking toward town, already mentally organizing my day. Dye the special order in those sunrise colors Mrs. Morrison wants for her daughter’s wedding shawl. Film a quick tutorial on gradient dyeing—my YouTube subscribers have been asking for that. Then rush toKnit Happens for the closing shift because Hannah’s got that date with Michael tonight and I promised to cover.
“Mew.”
The tiny sound stops me in my tracks. “What was that?”
Another soft mew, then another. I follow the source of the noise to a bush next to the road, my morning schedule suddenly forgotten. Underneath the leaves is a small kitten, gray with big blue eyes. It sits on its haunches, shaking, and stares at me like I might be either salvation or doom.
“Hey, little buddy.” I crouch and extend my hand, hoping it doesn’t run away. “Where’s your mom?”
“Mew,” the kitten says, more insistent this time.
It starts to shake even harder, and my heart breaks a little. I’ve never been much of an animal person—not because I don’t like them, but because my life has no room for anything that needs regular feeding and attention. But I can’t leave this creature here all by itself. The poor thing is soaked from last night’s rain, and I can see sores dotting its tiny body.
“You picked a hell of a morning to need rescuing,” I mutter, thinking of my packed schedule. But my hands are already reaching for the kitten, moving slowly so as not to spook it.
The kitten seems to sense I’m trying to help. Instead of running, it takes a tentative step toward me, then another. When I finally scoop it off the wet ground, it weighs almost nothing. As I hold it to my chest, it tucks its face into my hand, like it wants to disappear from the world.
“Shit.” I look up and down the street, unsure of what to do. I have work to get to and not a clue how to care for this kitten. My experience with animals extends to exactly one goldfish in college, and even that didn’t end well. Mr. Bubbles, rest in peace.
But the veterinarian’s clinic will know what to do. It’s just around the corner, right before the bridge to the mainland. My best friend, Hannah, has been taking her new dog there. Barkley,a golden retriever with more anxiety than a coffee-addicted squirrel.
And—according to what she told me when her boyfriend wasn’t in the room—the head vet is “really hot.”
“Like, offensively attractive,” Hannah had said, fanning herself dramatically. “It’s honestly unfair. No one who spends their day elbow-deep in animal emergencies should look that good.”
“Maybe he looks good because he’s covered in puppies all day,” I’d suggested. “Everyone looks better holding a puppy.”
“Trust me, this guy would look good holding a bag of garbage. I’m talking jaw structure that could cut glass, eyes that—” She’d stopped when Michael walked in, switching seamlessly to, “Anyway, Barkley loves going there!”
I tuck the kitten inside my windbreaker, where it immediately starts purring. The sound is surprisingly soothing, even as it vibrates against my ribs. “Let’s go see if Hannah was exaggerating about Dr. Hottie.”
My phone buzzes again. Another notification from @JustRaveled1018, this time on my story from yesterday:That workspace setup is goals! Love how the morning light hits your drying rack. Bet it looks even prettier in person.
I pause mid-step. My story yesterday was a ten-second video of yarn soaking in dye. You could barely see the drying rack in the corner, and definitely couldn’t tell anything about the lighting. How closely is this person watching?
