I reached Sergeant’s kennel and crouched. He was a blue-nose pit, all muscle and nerves, and he shivered in the back of his crate even after a month in my care. I made myself small, keeping my hands palm-down and eyes averted. Eventually, he oozed forward, belly dragging, and nosed my wrist through the bars. I let him sniff, then gently cupped the warm patch of his shoulder where the fur grew in weird from an old burn.
“Hey, Sarge,” I whispered. “Easy. It’s just me.”
A rattling cough behind me signaled Taryn’s arrival. “You’re early,” she said, like it was an accusation.
I stood up, straightening the already-frayed neck of my Humane Society polo. “I had a migraine last night. Figured I’d get a jump on the charts before the aspirin wore off.”
Taryn was one of those cheerful sadists who loved waking up before dawn. She balanced a tray of feeding bowls on one arm and used the other to open kennel after kennel, sliding bowls in, closing gates, moving down the line with the grace of a barista on a good caffeine day.
“You see the note about the biker appointment?” she asked, voice just a shade too casual.
I forced a laugh. “Yeah, it’s on the calendar. Noon. I’ll handle it.”
She glanced at me, eyebrow cocked. “You sure? They said it’s a whole group coming in. Like, club jackets and everything.”
A reel of old images played out behind my eyes, especially Dad’s friends passed out on our sofa, road dust and whiskey sweat, and the occasional black eye. The way they’d leer when Mom walked past, or worse, the way they’d ignore her. Teenage me, invisible in my own house, pressed against the wallpaper like I could osmosis my way through the Sheetrock if I held still enough.
“It’s fine,” I said. “I don’t judge until I see someone threaten a cat.”
Taryn smirked, satisfied, and disappeared into the supply closet. Alone again, I rubbed my thumb behind my right ear, tracing the tiny paw print tattoo that never quite healed smooth. I’d gotten it in Las Cruces at seventeen, a rebellion against my father’s world and a promise to myself that I’d only save things, never break them.
I finished my rounds, checked the med charts, and dialed into the routine. The shelter ran on paperwork—color-coded intake forms, adoption applications, medication logs, all of them stacked in trays that filled up faster than I could ever clear. I liked the crisp shuffle of the paper, the blue-inked checks in neat lines, the illusion that order could outpace entropy if you only worked fast enough.
A little after six, the first volunteer arrived. She was a retired middle school teacher who told the same three stories every day and greeted every animal like she was the protagonist in a children's movie. I let her in, swapped pleasantries, and went to the back breakroom for coffee that tasted like chlorine and defeat.
The clock ticked toward seven. I’d already logged two hours, and my nerves still hadn’t unwound from the mention of “club jackets.” I forced myself to focus on the present and the dogs to walk, the cat cages to bleach, and phone calls to answer. No old ghosts. No judgments until the facts presented themselves.
I inhaled, exhaled, and started the paperwork for the morning’s scheduled appointments. Out of the frosted window, the sky was finally bright enough to tint the linoleum blue. The animals settled, their morning chorus replaced by the occasional whimper or the soft purr of a satisfied foster. I leaned back, pressing my shoulders into the plastic of the chair, and set my jaw.
The world was always a mess. My job was to tidy my corner, even if the rest stayed hopeless.
The breakroom walls were plastered with “Adopt, Don’t Shop” posters, but I kept my eyes glued to the stack of applications spread across the laminated tabletop. They were all variations on a theme: cursive in red ink, blocky print from an ancient typewriter, one written entirely in pencil and stained with what might have been nacho cheese. My favorite was a printout creased so many times it had the texture of tissue. These were the stories people told about why they deserved a living thing to love them back.
I thumbed through them, making blue checkmarks next to the ones that passed my personal smell test—no kids under five, fenced yard, no evidence of hoarding tendencies or unresolved legal issues. The rest got stacked in the “Follow-Up” pile. My system wasn’t scientific, but it worked better than most.
At 8:21, Marsha breezed in, trailing perfume and paperwork. She was the shelter manager, and her voice always carried, even when she whispered.
“Emily, got a sec?”
I capped my pen and braced for whatever fresh hell awaited. “Sure.”
She dropped into the chair opposite, spreading her own stack of forms. “The appointment at noon? The guy called to confirm. He’ll be on time, possibly early. I’d like you to handle the consult.”
My pen hovered over the checkmark box. “Alone?”
She shrugged. “If you want backup, I can pull Taryn or the security volunteer, but he specifically asked for you. Said you were recommended.”
I tried to hide my reaction, but a hot flush crept up my neck. I rolled the pen between my palms, willing my pulse down. “I’ll be fine. It’s just an adoption, not a parole hearing.”
Marsha studied me, her mascaraed lashes blinking slowly. “You don’t have to prove anything, Emily. If you’re not comfortable—”
I cut her off, voice flat and even. “I want the placement to be right, that’s all. And I don’t want anyone spooked by some guy’s jacket.”
She let it go, which was either a sign of trust or a sign she was overloaded and couldn’t spare the bandwidth. We finished triaging the morning calls, then I excused myself to the locker cubby, pulling out my “public-facing” cardigan—a shapeless thing in hospital blue that signaled approachability without enthusiasm.
The rest of the morning blurred together. I swept the lobby, returned voicemails, and fielded a walk-in from a couple looking to surrender an “accidental” litter of ferret kits. I took their names, nodded at their excuses, and carried the wriggling bag to intake, where the ferret cage was already lined with fleece.
By 11:30, my hands smelled like antiseptic and rabbit pellets. I rinsed off in the utility sink and checked myself in the square mirror bolted above the mop rack. Hair still in a ponytail, but with more flyaways than before. My skin was flushed, freckled from the heat, and my eyes had the red-veined look of a night spent scrolling rescue forums.
