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“Boy, you just got outta the hospital,” Mama says, placing a container on the desk in front of him. “And I brought you chicken and dumplin’s, so do not test me.”

His face brightens. “I take back everything. You’re an angel, Miss Teresa.”

Mama pats his cheek. “I know.”

I laugh, and even with the ache in my throat, it feels good. Jules takes a closer look at me as I step toward the desk, and the humor fades from his face, leaving behind the truth of what we both remember.

“You okay?” he asks, reaching across the counter.

I take his hand. “Mostly,” I tell him.

Jules’s grip tightens. “Same.”

Neither of us needs to say more.

A volunteer rushes over carrying a clipboard. “Jules, the delivery from Savannah Pet Supply just arrived.”

“Excellent,” Jules says, straightening like the ruler of an extremely chaotic kingdom. “Please place the forty-seven bags of dog food next to the sixty-three bags already donated because apparently everyone in Savannah collectively decided I needed storage-related trauma after survivin’ a fire.”

The volunteer laughs and hurries away.

“Forty-seven bags?” I ask, glancing toward the supply area.

“That’s nothin’.” Jules gestures toward the overflowing storage space in the unaffected wing. “The online fundraiser passed seventy thousand dollars this morning.”

My mouth falls open. “What?”

“Turns out local news showin’ footage of a handsome shelter manager heroically survivin’ a fire inspired people.”

“You mean me,” I say, narrowing my eyes.

Jules lifts his tea. “Obviously me.”

Alexei appears beside me with a hand returning to the small of my back. “Your insurance company also approved emergency remediation.”

I blink. “Already?”

Alexei nods. “Roman encouraged them.”

I turn slowly to look at him. “What exactly does that mean?”

“It means your insurance company suddenly became remarkably efficient.”

Mama laughs from behind the desk. “Oh, honey. Don’t ask questions you don’t really want answered.”

A familiar bark interrupts us.

“Mr. Pickles!” I turn just as he races from the adoption room, her entire body wiggling.

I crouch on instinct.

“Maggie,” Alexei says sharply, his hand already reaching for my elbow.

Too late.

Mr. Pickles launches himself into my lap, and I laugh while Alexei mutters something in Russian that I’m fairly sure is not appropriate for polite company.

“You’re becoming a problem,” he informs the dog.