I’d never felt more alone.
I was…afraid.
My gaze drifted to the French doors leading out to the balcony.
Sunlight would’ve streamed in if I’d bothered to open the drapes. But then I’d have to look at the wilting pots of herbs and flowers I used to care for religiously. My little sanctuary—forgotten. Just like everything else lately.
Gran would be horrified.
But then a familiar shadow caught my eye, about two feet tall, black, with four legs. And then…
Yup. Whistling.
“Winston! Where you hiding, old boy?”
That’d be Mr. Calloway. One of our neighbors.
No longer ours. Mine. I guess. For now.
But if Mr. Calloway was outside, it meant Winston has slipped his leash again. And did I mention that Mr. Calloway was half blind?
Not bothering with shoes, I rushed to the door, stepping outside in nothing more than my T-shirt and sleep shorts.
Mr. Calloway was standing near the curb, poking his cane into a bush, probably thinking Winston would come out of it. He wore his usual uniform: a tucked-in button-up shirt, well-worn suspenders, and faded slacks that hit a little too high above his ankles. His wispy gray hair was combed straight back, and thick glasses perched low on his nose as if perpetually judging the world beneath them.
“Did he run off again?” I called as I crossed to him.
“Darn fool dog,” he muttered. “Too fast for my legs, too smart for his own good.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I spied the half-poodle, half-English sheep dog, sniffing around the door across the street.
“I’ll get him.”
Before I could start to cross, though, Mr. Calloway reached out and grabbed my arm.
“That Leo, he isn’t coming back, is he? Not good form to air your dirty laundry like that, Luna girl.”
Good gravy! I didn’t think Mr. Calloway even knew about the cooking show!
“Right? Maybe not my finest moment. But.. I’m fine. It’s fine.” When I tried pulling away, he gripped my arm a little tighter.
Then he sniffed, wrinkling his nose. “If you sweetened up a little, you could probably land yourself another fella.”
I forced a polite smile. “Yeah. Maybe. Now, just let me get Winston for you.” I managed to extract my arm, stepping away.
Anxious to save the dog and retreat back into my house—where I could continue wallowing in private—I jogged across the street, climbed another neighbor’s porch, and grabbed the scruffy escapee before he could bolt again.
I would have normally just scooped him up, but Winston had been pawing at a flower box on the porch, flinging soil and something definitely not-so-soil onto the steps.
“Winston!”
Manure. It had to be. The sharp, unmistakable smell was even stronger than me.
“Seriously?” I muttered, one hand gripping his scruff while the I tried scooping clumps of…this black mess into the box with my other.
And of course, the screen door creaked behind me.
“Oh!” a woman’s voice said, startled. “What are you doing?”
