Then I closed the folder, locked the door, and waited for the next ring of the phone.
9
Emily
It was supposed to be my day off. I’d told Marsha, told the volunteers, even told myself—after last week’s cluster of blood and bureaucracy, I deserved a Sunday spent face-down in a book or with my hands buried to the elbow in garden dirt, not standing in a linoleum corridor soaked in ammonia and the threat of actual violence. But of course, I was there. Of course, I’d come in at dawn to pull the overnight shift when Taryn’s kid spiked a fever. Of course, I was the one holding the clipboard, braced between a trio of men in leather and the four pit bulls barking themselves hoarse in the transfer kennels.
I could feel the standoff calcifying, every second stretching, the way animals sense a fight before humans even know they’re prey.
The men had come in right at opening: three, all about the same age but different enough in build that you could picture them as stages of a meaner, more specialized Darwinian experiment. They wore club jackets, but nothing local—no Scythes, not even Banditos. Instead, they had the off-brand menace of a traveling crew, the patches stitched by hands that never expected to last through the winter. Their sleeves were rolled to the elbow, and along the forearms you caught flashes of heavy, blackwork tattoos: the Sultan crescent and star, a fist holding a chain, block letters I couldn’t read.
The biggest of the three—neck like a parking meter, nose already crooked from too many breaks—leaned in with the practiced casualness of someone who’d spent years perfecting the art of making every room feel a little smaller. His knuckles drummed the Formica reception desk, once, twice, three times.
“We’re just trying to help the community,” he said, the words smooth but edged with boredom. “You get a lot of dogs in here, yeah?”
I nodded, kept my voice professional. “We do. But not all of them are suitable for placement.”
The second guy—shorter, with wrists thick as beer cans—grinned at the phrase. “Heard you had some real nice ones in the back. Strong, pure muscle. Shame to see them go to waste.”
He said “waste” like it meant “anything but me.”
I pressed the adoption folder against my chest, feeling the edges dig into my palm. My eyes darted to the hallway camera—red light on, but I didn’t trust the old system to actually record anything but static and the occasional blurred ghost.
“The application process is the same for everyone,” I said, giving my best, “I’ve had this argument with three different sheriffs and a methhead before lunch” smile. “If you want to meet a dog, you can fill out the intake here, and I’ll bring one up.”
The third man—youngest, eyes too shiny—glanced around the lobby like he was already bored with the script. “Why can’t we just see the pits?”
“Because they’re still under evaluation,” I said, careful not to let my voice rise. “They’re not eligible for public handling until we clear the behavioral and medical checks.”
The leader’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “You saying we’re not good enough to handle a couple mutts?”
I didn’t flinch. “I’m saying the rules are the rules.”
He took a step closer, crowding the desk so his patched shoulder nearly touched the intake forms. I could see the flecks of old blood along the stitching of his collar, the sour tang of sweat rising as he leaned in.
“Tell you what,” he said, voice low, “maybe we can come back later. When there’s less red tape.” He let the words hang, a challenge as much as a threat.
I set my jaw. “If you come back without paperwork, I’ll have to call it in as trespassing. I don’t want to do that.”
The smallest of the trio made a show of sighing, stretching, and cracking his knuckles. “You got a number, sweetie?” he said, eyes flicking to my name tag. “Maybe we can talk about this over dinner. Emily, right?”
I stared him down. “If you can’t follow the process, you’re not going to get near these animals.”
The big one’s hand flattened on the desk, fingers splayed. I watched the muscles in his forearm tense, a shiver under the skin like a snake bracing to strike.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dean.
He’d slipped through the side door, moving with the weird, ghostly silence I’d come to recognize as his default setting when he was thinking through the possible ways to dismantle a room. He wore the Bloody Scythes cut, black and red against his shoulders, the edges softened by rain but no less menacing. In one hand, a paper sack oftakeout—smells of green chile and tortillas leaking out; in the other, the familiar folder.
He took in the scene with a single glance—three men, all posturing; me, wedged between them and the kennel; the low-grade hum of violence pulsing under the air.
“Everything all right, Em?” he said, tone flat but loud enough to make the leader turn.
I nodded, careful not to show relief. “Just explaining the rules. These gentlemen wanted to see the dogs.”
Dean’s jaw flexed. He set the takeout on the counter and stepped forward, boots making no sound on the wet tile. “She’s not kidding about the paperwork,” he said to the men, voice even, “and if you’re not here for a good reason, you should leave.”
The Sultan with the broken nose turned, finally seeing the patch. For a second, his face flickered with something close to recognition—then it went slack, a cold, predatory smile blooming.
