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CARMEN

Why am I so nervous?

I take a slow breath and push open the shelter door. The smell hits me first—wet fur, disinfectant, something faintly sour beneath it—but the lobby itself is bright and cheerful, the walls lined with photos of dogs beside the families who chose them.

I’m glad Diane could come with me. She squeezes my arm and gives me a reassuring smile.

“What if I make the wrong decision?” I say.

“You won’t,” she says. “We’ve been over the criteria.”

I repeat the list. “A young dog so I can still shape some habits, but not a puppy that needs round-the-clock attention. Something low-maintenance. Nothing high-energy that needs three-hour hikes every day.”

“Exactly.” Diane says. “And you won’t take pity on any of them, and you won’t adopt all of them.”

I nod.

That’s the plan.

I’m fifty-two, I’ve just filed for divorce, and I start my GED next week. The last thing I need is a four-legged tornado while I’m trying to put my life back together. But after a year of moping around the house, alone, I’m ready for some company.

I square my shoulders and step up to the reception desk.

“Good morning,” I say.

The kid behind the counter glances up from his phone, chewing gum. He can’t be more than seventeen and has that unmistakable “how much longer until I’m free?” look, but he still gives me a polite half-smile.

“What can I do for you, ma’am?”

“I’m Carmen Whitmore,” I say with a smile. “I called earlier this week about the adoption. I’ve finished all the paperwork and passed the checks, so I’m ready to meet the dogs.”

Diane elbows me gently.

“I’m looking for something low-maintenance,” I add.

He nods, pops his gum once, and comes out from behind the counter.

“We’ve got a few that might fit. Follow me.”

He leads us through a narrow door into the back of the shelter, where rows of cages line the walls, stacked two high.

The dogs are clean and bright-eyed, tails wagging as we pass. One presses his nose between the bars. Another lets out a hopeful bark. They seem happy enough, and I’m sure the staff here are doing their best.

I still hate seeing dogs in cages.

Especially back here, where there’s no natural light, only the flat buzz of fluorescent bulbs overhead. No yard either, not that I can see. We’re right in the middle of downtown Alton Hills, with traffic on every side and no safe walking paths nearby.

They’re safe. I know that.

But safe isn’t the same as home.

Once my divorce is final, I’m going to use my settlement to open my own shelter. Somewhere outside the city, with open runs, fresh air, and real grass under their paws. Proper kennels for safety, of course, but nothing like this.

When I first told my husband, Maverick, about the idea, he laughed. He said it was a stupid plan that would hemorrhage money. But I’m not in it for profit. I want to do it because no animal should spend even a single day trapped in a cage without seeing daylight.

The boy stops at a cage that holds a beautiful young Labrador mix, maybe eight months old, curled neatly on her bed. She lifts her head, tail thumping softly against the blanket, eyes calm and sweet. No frantic jumping, no barking—just a gentle, hopeful look.