My phone glows with my last message from Heather:
Key under mat… I think.
The porch light flickers as I climb the steps, boots crunching in thick snow. I bend to lift the mat.
“Okay, Heather. Under the mat.”
Nope.
I lift the mat right up and shake it.
Still nothing.
“Of course.”
I look around—there’s a half-buried flowerpot, a decorative gnome, and a broken watering can by the door.Where would I hide a key if I was a lunatic?
Ten minutes later, I find it under a frozen dog bowl.
Because, of course.
The moment I slip through the door, chaos hits. Four dogs ambush me—big, small, wiggly, loud—barking and leaping at me, tails wagging hard enough to power a turbine. I crouch down and let them lick my face.
When I straighten up, a gray cat streaks past my boots, and from somewhere above my head a voice screeches, “Merry Christmas, idiot!”
My head jerks up.
The culprit—a green parrot—glares down at me from a perch near the rafters, feathers fluffed.
“You must be Mr. Jingles,” I say. “Charmed, I’m sure.”
Now he’s said his piece, he regards me silently with his beady eyes.
I shut the door firmly behind me, heart still racing from the chaotic entrance, and from the fact that my mother just ditched me like an unwanted Secret Santa gift.
The cabin smells like pine and animal. Dog beds and chew toys are scattered everywhere like landmines. But at least there’s a generous stack of wood and kindling beside the hearth. I cross to it right away. I’m not what you’d call outdoorsy. More a heated-seats-and-Netflix kind of girl. But my dad taught me to light a fire—said it was one of the most essential skills a human could learn—right before a drunk driver plowed through a red light and took him away from me.
So, any time I get the chance, I kneel in front of a hearth, stack kindling, strike a match, and send a silent prayer.
The dogs settle, once they’ve ascertained that I’ll be sticking around—one collapses in front of the fire, the other three take up various spots around the room. Mr. Jingles mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “moron” from his perch in the corner.
I kick off my boots and head to the little kitchen. It’s basic but tidy: pine cupboards, an ancient kettle, mugs sending greetings from Curaçao. I fill the kettle and set it to boil. As the water bubbles, I root in the cupboards for coffee. All I find is cocoa mix—half-empty tin, clumpy at the edges—and make a mug so thick the spoon practically stands upright.
I stand there a moment, sipping, feeling the warmth seep back into me. The place hums with quiet—no traffic, no other houses in sight, just the rumble of the boiler and the soft snore of a dog. I spot a bunch of romantasy books on a bookshelf, and a narrow staircase that leads up to what looks like a cozy sleeping area. The whole place feels like it’s designed for onething: slowing down. Work knows I’ll be basically off-grid this week. No emails. No emergencies. Just… me.
For the first time all day, my shoulders loosen.
“Okay,” I tell the room. “Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.”
And that’s when I see the envelope on the counter—Instructions for the Pets.
I sit down on the sofa, put my feet up on the coffee table and tear it open.
Feed all animals twice daily. Don’t forget Mr. Jingles likes jazz….
I snort. “Great. I’ll just duet with the parrot when cabin fever sets in.”
…Dogs need their multi vitamins 2x per day. Whatever you do, don’t let Smokey outside.
