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Madison

By Tuesday, I have stopped thinking of Oakridge Veterans Farm as somewhere I volunteer.

I still volunteer, technically.

I help Emma with the dogs, Cole with inventory, Betty with whatever she decides needs doing, and anyone else who catches me standing still for more than thirty seconds.

But somewhere during the past few weeks, the farm has become part of my routine. Drop Noah at school. Check in at the restaurant in New York. Answer emails. Come here. Some days for an hour. Some days longer.

Today, longer.

I’m carrying a box of clean towels toward the training barn when Noah comes running across the yard with Ranger beside him.

“Aunt Maddy!”

I stop. “What are you doing here?”

“Grandma picked me up.”

Mom appears behind him at a much more reasonable pace. “He told me his presence was urgently required.”

“It was,” Noah says.

“Of course it was,” I say.

Noah is already crouched beside Ranger. “Emma said I can help feed the dogs.”

“After your homework?”

Mom smiles. “Already done.”

I look at her. She shrugs. “He did it in the car.”

“See?” Noah says with a grin.

“I see.”

Emma comes out of the barn carrying two empty bowls. “There’s my assistant.”

Noah jumps up and takes one of the bowls from her. “I’m coming.” He disappears inside.

I smile after him.

Then I notice Martinez.

He’s standing near the open doors of the equipment shed, a clipboard in one hand. He isn’t looking at me. He’s watching Noah.

There’s something in his expression I can’t place. Not sadness. Not quite. Something quieter.

Noah laughs at something Emma says inside the barn.

Martinez’s fingers tighten slightly around the clipboard.

Then Atlas nudges his leg. He looks down, rests a hand briefly on the dog’s head, and when he looks up again, his expression is gone.

His eyes find mine.

I wonder if he knows I was watching. Probably. He seems to notice everything.