“Don’t need nothing.” Nimble shook his head as he polished off the last of the bacon and scraped his bowl with his thumb for smears of oatmeal that were more sugar than anything.
Morgan made a sound under his breath and stood up, his blue robe swirling around him. “There’s that phone again,” he said. “I’m going to see if I can catch it. Can you get the dishes?”
“Sure.”
Nimble attacked the dishes, humming under his breath, and was surprised when Morgan came back quickly.
“That was Mabel,” he said with a sigh. “She reminded me, once again, about her special orders. Of course, now that the sun is out and the roads mostly plowed, she wants her birdseed, her special dog food, and salt and grit for her sidewalk.” He grunted as he ran his hand through his hair. “She probably wants someone to shovel her walk for her, too.”
“I’ll go,” Nimble said. He drew his hands out of the sudsy water and wiped them on his jeans. “Not a problem.”
Morgan sighed again. “She’s not going to stop calling, and if I ignore her, I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“Honestly, I’ll go.” Nimble had heard so much about Mabel, it would be fun to see her in real life. “What’s her dog’s name?”
“Mister Rocket,” Morgan said, enunciating each word. “You finish the dishes while I get dressed. Then I can show you where Mabel’s order is, and we’ll unearth the truck and see if it will start.”
Smiling the whole while, Nimble did the dishes, and when Morgan came back, they went downstairs.
“Take my coat, at least,” Morgan said. “And my gloves and scarf. Here are the keys. There must be a scraper in the truck, but you’ll need to clear some of the snow with your hands.”
Nimble laced up his boots and inhaled traces of cologne as he put on Morgan’s gloves and scarf, though he left Morgan’s coat where it was. He took the keys from the hook by the front door and marched through the store to the yard and into the crystal-clear day.
He pawed away as much snow as he could, getting it up his sleeves despite his best efforts. Then he cleaned off the windshield using the scraper he found under the bench seat before getting into the ice-cold cabin and trying the engine.
With a crank of the old-fashioned key and a few pumps on the gas pedal, it started, grumbling slightly, so he let it sit and warm up and waved at Morgan, who was looking out one of the windows. After a few minutes, he drove around to the front, where Morgan was waiting just outside the doors.
Leaving the truck running, Nimble elbowed Morgan out of the way before he hurt himself carrying anything. He brought out the four ten-pound bags of special mix birdseed, the twenty-pound bag of special kibble for smaller dogs, and the two ten-pound buckets of salt-and-grit mix, and loaded them into the truck bed, tucking them in amidst the snow.
Morgan waved him back, and Nimble trotted over to where Morgan was letting all the warm air out of the store.
“This is where she lives.” Morgan held up his phone, where the map app displayed an address and a little red dot in themiddle of a street grid. “You go down Buford Street. Turn right on Fourth and left at Wagner. Do you want to take the phone with you?”
“I’m good. Need anything while I’m out?” Nimble asked, buoyed up by the idea of driving. He puffed out smoke rings in the open doorway while Morgan dug into his wallet and handed him a wad of twenties.
“Make the deliveries to Mabel, then fill up the tank all the way.” He smiled as he put his wallet back into his pocket. “And maybe get some ice cream at the market? Milk? Bread? I checked, and we’re due for another blast come nightfall.”
“Can do.”
Giving Morgan a thumbs-up with a hand that felt overly warm in the glove, Nimble headed back to the truck and hopped into the cab, which was a little bit warmer now. Then he pulled out of the lot and onto the cleared strip in the center of the roadway.
As he maneuvered through town, a few other trucks and Jeeps were out, but he was mostly on his own as he drove down the two-lane highway. He turned right on Fourth and left on Wagner, per the directions. It was a small town, so it didn’t take him long before he was pulling up in front of a little gray house.
Standing on the front step, bundled up in a thick coat, scarf, and boots as though for a trek across the Arctic, was an older woman, white hair poofing around the edges of her knit cap. She held a Jack Russell terrier in her arms, and the dog looked at Nimble with dark eyes as he parked on the street and came around the side of the truck to survey the snow-covered yard and walkway. The top cement step was cleared, but nothing else was.
“Are you Nimble, young man?” the woman—Mabel—asked, looking him up and down. “Such a strange name. Aren’t you freezing?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Mr. Malone just called and said you were on your way,” she said, snappy and quick. “Can you bring in my orders? Mister Rocket likes his special kibble, and I don’t want to run out. He’s a good dog and deserves the best.”
Nimble turned and reached into the back of the truck for the twenty-pound bag and hauled it onto his shoulder, pretending he did this all the time. He made his way across the snowy yard, having no idea where the walk was. When he got to the bottom of the steps, he looked up and saw the concern in Mabel’s eyes. That was understandable. He was a strong young man and a stranger to her.
A well of protectiveness rose inside him. He mounted the steps slowly and set the bag at her feet.
“I could bring it in,” he said. “Or leave it here. Whatever you prefer.”
He waited, trying not to loom over her, and she looked at him. All the while, Mister Rocket assessed him with those dark, glittery eyes. The dog’s coat was glossy and clean, the collar new, fitting easily around his neck. The dog was well-cared for. Loved.
