"Can't breathe," I wheeze, but I'm hugging her back just as hard.
She finally releases me, hugs Ace just as brutally, then crouches down to greet Candy, who's wiggling with joy. "Hello, precious girl. Look at you! So happy and healthy!"
Papa Paws appears behind her, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He looks different somehow—lighter, younger, like someone lifted a weight he'd been carrying for years.
"How's it going?" I ask.
He gestures toward the interior with a sweeping motion. "See for yourself."
We step inside, and I stop dead.
The shelter ispacked. Every available space is filled with people—families with kids, couples holding hands, volunteers I recognize from the charity game. There are balloons everywhere, shimmering silver and gold, tied to chairs and doorframes. Streamers crisscross the ceiling. A massive "Happy New Year!" banner hangs on the far wall, glittering in the overhead lights.
But more than the decorations, more than the crowd, what gets me is theenergy. The place is buzzing with life and hope and this palpable sense of joy that makes my chest feel too full.
"Devon!" Wall's voice booms from across the room.
I look over and—
He's on the floor. Flat on his back. Covered in puppies.
At least six of them, maybe more, all climbing over him, licking his face, chewing on his ears, and he's laughing, this big, genuine laugh that makes everyone around him smile.
"I think he's found his calling," Ace says.
"Professional puppy mattress?"
He shrugs. "It's a niche market."
We weave through the crowd, greeting people as we go. A family stops us to thank us for the charity game. A volunteer hugs me and starts crying. I'm not great with crying, but I hug her back and tell her it's okay, and she just squeezes tighter.
In the corner, Petrov is crouched in front of a cat—a sleek black one with attitude—trying to teach it to high-five.
"Up top," Petrov says, holding his palm out.
The cat stares at him.
"Up top," he repeats, more insistent.
The cat licks its paw.
"You are being difficult on purpose," Petrov accuses.
The cat yawns, showing all its teeth, and walks away.
Petrov looks offended. "In Russia, cats have more respect."
"In Russia, everything has more respect according to you," Groover says, walking past with a clipboard.
"Is true!"
Near the refreshment table, Becker and Hendrix are putting on some kind of performance. Becker's beatboxing, badly, making sounds that might charitably be called "rhythmicnoise," while Hendrix bobs his head and screeches "Kiss kiss!" in time with the beat.
It's terrible.
It's amazing.
People are filming it.
