The thought of Penny lingers: her chartreuse slippers, her fun-loving laugh and adventurous stories, and her cactus with lessons in stubborn survival. My chest aches, but the ache feels… complicated. Loss braided with hope.
What is it they say?“Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass; it’s about learning to dance in the rain.”Here’s to dancing in the rain.
Everwood, Montana. A place that seems pulled from a postcard, with a population barely scraping three thousand. Wide skies, snow-heavy winters, and mountains that look both impressive and picture-perfect.
I imagine it for a moment: roads lined with trees, the air sharp and clean, people who wave and know your name. And maybe, if fate isn’t entirely cruel, someone steady enough to balance out my chaos.
A car splashes through a puddle nearby, snapping me back. I hug the carrier tighter, tuck the envelope into the soggy cardboard box, and lift my chin against the drizzle.
“Okay, Penny,” I whisper into the gray morning. “Message received.”
And just like that, the decision I’ve been circling is made. I’m going to Montana.
Pumpernickel chuffs once, maybe agreement. Or just sass. Either way, I take it as a yes.
I found that saying I’m going to leave and actually leaving are two very different things. While packing up my entire life into only a few boxes, I was suddenly very aware of the fact that I’d made a split-second decision based on emotion. But here I am, boxing up my things and talking to my mom as if she were actually here, answering me, rather than the reality. The reality is I am alone. Mom passed a few years ago, and I’d just lost my job, so basically, I’m a crazy person talking to myself.
In my spare bedroom, which I’d used as a makeshift office, I found a few old files I’d taken home to study. Dr. Sato, my secret mentor, had suggested I study up on a few key files. When I started working at Hills Burrow Veterinary Clinic, he’d told meto keep my head down, and when I needed help, he’d always be there. But he was only a working vet; he didn’t own the building or the office. He had no say in my being let go. I called the office yesterday and told them I’d return the files on my way out of town. Nancy didn’t seem to care, but Gina, one of the techs and a work friend, seemed to find the news fascinating.
Three days later, the clinic smelled like disinfectant and wet fur. Most businesses had candles and fuzzy blankets. Vets had chlorhexidine, coffee that could peel paint, and the constant chorus of nails clicking on tile.
It was 6:42 a.m. The building hadn’t officially woken up yet, so I let myself in with the key I was returning along with the files.
I set my purse down on the front counter and stared at the schedule board.
Normally, my name, Dr. Milly Thomas, along with appointments stacked like Jenga blocks, would be waiting for me, but today my column was blank. My name had been erased like I was never here.
I’d made that board. Not just the magnets and the color-coding, but the rhythm of it. The way I could take one look at a name and already feel the day’s mood in my bones.
Some people collected souvenirs. I collected patients. My ‘friends’ were mostly clients, coworkers, and whatever animal needed me. Denver didn’t come with a built-in people-pack.
“Morning, Doc,” Gina called from the treatment area, her voice muffled by a mouthful of her organic granola. If I had to guess, she came around the corner in her scrubs with her hair in a messy bun, one hand holding a granola bar, the other a water bottle.
Gina was an excellent tech. She could place an IV while talking a panicking owner down from the ledge. She was also the kind of tech who knew I liked my coffee with exactly onespoonful of sugar and would quietly fix it if I forgot, because my brain was busy running triage on the entire universe.
“Morning,” I said, and tried to make my voice normal. Like today was a regular day. Like I hadn’t already packed my apartment down to the bones.
She squinted at me, chewing slowly. “You look…” Gina didn’t finish, she just smiled like she was going to cry.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“That tracks,” she said, as if insomnia were a personality trait we’d all agreed to share.
I looked at her hands. She’d held a hundred trembling dogs and a thousand worried owners, never once making them feel like they were too much.
“You’re really going,” Gina said softly.
There it was. The topic I, too, was still sorting out.
I turned my gaze back to the schedule board because looking at people when I’m about to feel something is a dangerous hobby. “Yep. But it’s only for a year.”
I said it like a spell. Like if I said it enough, it wouldn’t feel so scary.
Gina made a small sound that could have been a laugh or a cry. “Sure, Doc.”
We didn’t talk about the rest. The things I wasn’t saying out loud: that I was leaving my license renewal in deferment; that my closet still smelled like scrubs and antiseptic; that my hands had memorized the shape of this place.
That my life had been built around being here.
