Chapter Seventeen

Joe

I’m halfway home when it hits me.
It’s Tuesday, Chase’s birthday.

My promise.

Damn.

I pull a quick U-turn and head toward Matt’s place. He’ll be grilling, probably  halfway through a six-pack. Chase’ll be bouncing off the walls, high on cake and attention or fighting with Oliver over something.

Traffic’s a mess. Red brake lights for miles. I settle in, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping the dash.

Gives me time to think.
Not sure I want that.

Izzy.

That moment on the deck — her eyes, her voice, the way she stood so still, like she was holding herself together with thread.
She cracked open something in me.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just… real.

I haven’t felt real in a long time.

She told me about Steven. Molly. The baby. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t sugarcoat it.
Just bravely laid it out like bricks on a path.
And I followed.

I keep seeing her hands — clasped tight, then loosening.
Her braid. That smudge of dirt on her cheek.
She’s strong. Not loud about it. Just steady.

And the garden. That place is sacred. You don’t build something like that unless you’ve bled for it.

I grip the wheel tighter.

She said Miss Alice helped her heal. Gave her a shovel and a packet of seeds.
Told her to start there.

I wonder what Miss Alice would’ve handed me. A wrench? A hammer?
A damn crowbar to pry me open?

I snort.

She’d probably just look at me and say, “Quit sulking. Go fix something.”

I glance at the clock. Traffic is still crawling. Matt’s probably wondering where I am.

But my mind’s not on burgers or beer.
It’s on Izzy.
On that garden.
On the way her voice cracked when she said, “Sometimes it just feels like survival.”

I get it.
More than I want to admit.

And then I remember — I’m fixing up Miss Alice’s house.
To sell it.

Suddenly, that feels wrong.
Feels like tearing up roots.

Izzy’s next door.
She’s still healing.
And for the first time in years, I feel like maybe I am too.

Maybe I’m not done here.

Matt’s driveway is packed. I park two houses down and walk the rest of the way, gift bag in hand — some Lego thing Chase’ll tear open and forget by morning.

The backyard’s loud. Kids running wild. Grill smoking. Music low. Matt waves me over, beer in hand, grin wide.

“Look who finally showed up,” he says.

“Traffic,” I grunt. “And poor planning.”

Claire, Matt’s wife  gives  me a big hug. She smells like sunscreen and birthday cake. “Glad you made it,” she says. “Chase’s been asking for you.”

My chest’s tight. Not from the noise but from what I came here to do.

Later, after cake and the guests have left, we sit around the fire pit. Matt cracks open another beer. Claire sits nested next to him with a blanket over her lap. Thankfully, the boys are inside watching a movie. It’s quiet now. Easy.

Time to spill your guts, Joe. Get to it.

I clear my throat and start. “Well now that it’s just us, I have something I need to share.”

Matt raises an eyebrow and sits up a little straighter. Claire, expecting Matt’s boyish behavior, takes his beer can out of his hand and puts it on the table. She whispers in his ear,” No junk talk, Matt. Let Joe talk.”

Here goes nothing.

“Izzy let me in her yard today,” I start. “She showed me her garden and then opened up about her family. About the accident. About Miss Alice.”

 I hold my hands out and feel the fire’s warmth on my fingers.  “ I was surprised at how brave she was. “

Claire’s eyes soften. Matt nods slowly.

“She trusted me with it. Didn’t have to. But she did.”

Matt asks, “ Did  you talk face to face?”

“Yeah.”

I pause. The fire pops carrying smoke and the spicy smell of burning wood.

“And it made me realize something. I’ve been radio silent for years.  A damn ghost. The years of  pressure-filled missions  took a toll on me. I got stuck in mission mode- I became nothing more than a CI- just another Government asset.  I stopped talking. Stopped showing up for anything other than work. And since I’ve been home? I’ve been even worse. “

Matt shifts in his chair, but doesn’t interrupt.

“I owe you both an apology. For the silence. For disappearing. For making you carry the weight of family alone.”

Claire’s eyes glisten. Matt looks away, jaw tight.

“I’m going to change. Starting now.”

Matt finally meets my eyes. “Took you long enough, big brother.”

Claire laughs — soft, warm. “We missed you, Joe.”

My eyes glisten with tears I refuse to let fall.  “I missed you, too.”

The fire crackles. The night hums.

And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like  a ghost. I feel like I’m part of something again.

 

Chapter Eighteen

Izzy

I can’t work outside  this morning. The garden’s still too wet from last night’s rain, so I’m baking to stay busy.
I’ve already made cornbread—the good kind. Sweet, with a crackly top and just enough heat from the jalapeños to make you blink. I’ll eat it with soup for dinner and freeze the leftovers.

The kitchen, warm from the oven, smells like cinnamon and butter as I roll out the dough for hand pies.
The apple filling’s ready—Miss Alice’s favorite.  I made it first so it could cool.

I can’t help but feel a bit sneaky using Miss Alice’s pies on Joe.  They were her secret weapons, so good no one could resist them She used these special little pies when she wanted someone to visit. It always worked.

My mind shifts to Joe.

I don’t know what I’m doing.
That’s a lie.
I know exactly what I’m doing.

He’s been showing up. Not just with tools and lumber, but with something else. Something I didn’t expect.

Presence.
Stillness.
A kind of quiet that doesn’t press or pry.

And now I want him to stay so I’ll use the pies but there has to be more. I wipe my hands on the towel tucked into my apron and glance out the window.
What needs fixing in the garden that I could use help with?

I smile.
The trellis is wobbly.
The compost bin’s leaning too far to the right.

He still hasn’t fixed the squeaky window,
Plenty of excuses to ask Joe for help.

I press the edge of a fork into the pie crust, sealing it shut.
My hands are steady, but my chest’s tight.

“Miss Alice, am I making a mistake?”
“Am I being a crazy woman, cooking for him?”

I snort softly.
“Oh, never mind. I’m gonna do it anyway.”

I slide the tray of pies into the oven and lean against the counter, arms folded tight.

There’s something about Joe.
He’s got that same quiet grief tucked behind his eyes as me.
Like he’s still carrying something heavy, and he’s not sure if he’s allowed to set it down.

God, that sounds familiar.

Maybe today I’ll ask him to help with the trellis.
Maybe I’ll bring the pies out warm and hand him one without a word.
Maybe I’ll tell him more about Miss Alice.
About the goodbye that wasn’t enough.

A soft sensation brushes my right ear.
Miss Alice.

"Do it, Izzy," she whispers. "Be super brave."

 

By mid-morning, after all my baking’s done and the kitchen’s put back in order, I reach for my latest read, a romance novel of course,  when I hear a faint pounding noise coming from outside.
The gate.
Joe’s here.

Excited, I rush out and call, “Joe, is that you?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I come bearing presents.”

“Presents?”

I unlatch the gate. Joe’s standing there in brown carpenter overalls with a black t-shirt underneath.  He’s holding a  plastic supermarket bag.
He smirks and hands it to me. “I brought you a bag of my favorite coffee. I order it from Minnesota. It’s a Scandinavian blend.”

I can feel myself blushing. No one’s given me a present in years.
“Thank you, Joe. “  I open the bag and take a big sniff… “smells wonderful, earthy, a bit spicy.. interesting. “

“I hope you love it.”

“Tell you what. I’ll go make us a pot, and you can try some of the apple hand pies I baked this morning.”

He rubs his stomach and his eyes get big like a kid in the candy aisle. “Apple pie? That sounds wonderful.”

“Okay then, have a seat on the deck. I’ll get things ready.”

“You need any help?”

No. No. I’m not ready to let him in yet.

“No. I can do it. Just wait out here. I’ll only be a minute.”

 

His eyes roll back in his head as he takes a bite of pie. “Oh my god. This is fantastic.”

I can’t help but smile. “Thanks. It’s a Miss Alice’s recipe.”

“You were lucky to have her.”

“I was.”

A whisper brushes my ear—“Tell him about losing me.”

I pour Joe a second cup of coffee. “She didn’t tell me she was sick.”

He pauses, cup halfway to his mouth. “Miss Alice?”

It takes effort to keep my voice steady.
“She called 911 in the middle of the night. They took her to the hospital.
I didn’t know. I didn’t even hear the ambulance.”

I swallow hard.
“I woke up late that next day  and was surprised she hadn’t come over. She came for coffee every morning at seven. It was eight-thirty. Her porch light was still on. Not like her at all. I knew something was wrong.”

“You must’ve been scared.”

 “I was frantic. I called. Texted. Walked the fence line like it would give me answers. Knocked on her back door. Nothing.”

I take a breath.
“Then her daughter—she lives in Alaska—called me from the hospital. She explained that Miss Alice had a bad heart attack. Then she put Miss Alice on the line. “‘She wants to talk to you.’”

Joe sets his pie down and gently places his hand on mine.
“Tell me you got to say goodbye.”

I squeeze his hand.
“Yeah. Over the phone. She sounded terrible—her voice soft and thin.
She said, ‘Please don’t try to come to the hospital. I don’t want you to see me like this.’”

I wipe away a tear.
“I told her I loved her. Thanked her for everything.”
She said, ‘I know.’”

Joe’s voice is solemn. “That’s a rough way to lose someone.”

“Yeah. But she knew I couldn’t make it to the hospital. I hadn’t left my house in years.. She was saving me from even trying.”

Just then, Marty pecks at the window screen.
I laugh at the interruption. “That’s Marty—the neighborhood pest.”

Joe shoos him away. “Go home, Marty.”

“I’m sorry about Miss Alice,” he says. “That must’ve been hard.”

“It broke me open. Not all at once. Just… like a crack that kept widening.”

 I look down at my hands.
“I’m still angry I never got to say thank you in person.”

Joe’s voice is steady.
“You just did.”

Joe ate three pies with his coffee.  “ I made a pig of myself.”

“Don’t worry, I made them to sweet talk you in to giving me a hand.”

He laughs and pats his stomach. “Whatever you need.”

“Will you help me fix my trellis?”

He stands and gestures with his hand. “Lead the way, Fair Maiden.”

Joe follows me into the garden, eyeing the wobbly trellis like it’s a personal challenge.

“This thing’s got one foot in the grave,”  giving it a gentle shake.

“Don’t insult it,” I reply. “It’s been loyal.”

He grins. “Let’s give it a proper resurrection.”

I hand him the replacement boards. He grabs the hammer from his tool belt and immediately whacks his thumb.

“Son of a—!” He hops in place, clutching his hand. “Okay, that was a warm-up swing.”

I snort. “You want gloves?”

“Nope. Just dignity. Which I’ve clearly lost.”

He lines up the first board, and I hold it steady while he nails it in. The rhythm is satisfying—tap, tap, crack.

“Hey, Miss Alice,” he mutters. “You supervising?”

A breeze rustles the ivy nearby shaking loose the last of the morning’s raindrops.

“She’s holding the boards,” I say, half teasing, half serious.

Joe’s mouth turns into a grin. “She’s got good form.”

We move to the second board. As I reach up to brace it, something soft, wet and yucky lands on my head.

I freeze. “Joe.”

“Yes?”

“Did you just drop a dead vine on me?”

“Technically, it fell. With style.”

I pull it off and wave it at him. “You’re lucky I don’t have a shovel.”

He laughs, full and unguarded. “You looked too serious. Had to lighten the mood.”

Just then, a spider scuttles out from under the trellis. Joe yelps and jumps back like it’s a grenade. “Okay, nope. That guy’s in charge now. I’m retiring.”

I burst out laughing. “You’re afraid of spiders?”

“Only the mean giant ones who want to bite me.”

We finish the last board, and Joe steps back to admire our work. The trellis stands straight, proud, like it’s been waiting for this moment.

“Looks good, just needs a coat of stain though to protect the new wood. ” he says.

“Feels good,” I reply.

He wipes sweat from his brow and grins. “You know, for a haunted garden, this place has great energy.”

I glance at the spot where Miss Alice used to sit.
“She’d be proud.”

 

Chapter Nineteen

Joe

My phone buzzes just as I’m brushing dead ivy off my shirt.
Allen. The plumber.

I answer with a grunt. “Yeah?”

“All set on the main lines,” he says. “Water’s flowing clean. You’re good to start on the spa bathroom whenever.”

“Appreciate it,” I say. “I’ll head over now.”

I hang up and glance at Izzy, who’s still brushing dirt off her shoulder from my vine ambush.
She’s smiling, but there’s something soft in her eyes. Like the story she told earlier is still echoing.

“I’ve gotta get back to the house,” I say, picking up my tool bag. “Spa bathroom’s calling.”

 “Thanks for helping with the trellis. It looks great.”

I pause at the gate. “Now I’ve got a favor to ask you.”

Her eyebrows lift. “Oh?”

“Will you help me pick out paint colors for the house? I’ll bring samples over so we can do it from here.”

She grins. “I take it we can’t paint anything purple, right?”

I laugh. “Only if you want me to move out before I move in.”

She shakes her head, still smiling. “Deal. But I’m sneaking in something with flowers.”

“Compromise,” I say. “I can handle that.”

Izzy stays on the deck, watching me go.

The bathroom will  be a study in soft neutrals—a lovely Spa retreat.  Off-white tiles climbing halfway up the walls, khaki paint above, and a single accent wall clad in golden wood tile.

The same wood tile will  cover the floor,  warm under bare feet, grounding the space in something earthy and calm.

The fixtures will gleam in ivory, not the cold bite of white but something gentler.

 

“ Damn it.”  I’m crouched on the floor, a tile in one hand, the other braced against my knee. The pattern was supposed to be simple—staggered—but the angles keep looking cockeyed.  Give yourself a break, Joe, you haven’t done work like this in a long time. Fancy tile. Real wood grain. It needs to be done right.

I speak out loud, “Dad, I could sure use your help right now.”  He spent his whole life on projects like this, what I wouldn’t give to have him here right now.

“Hey, Miss Alice, you any good at this tiling stuff? You wouldn’t happen to know if this is supposed to line up with the grout or the edge of the tub, would you?”

He didn’t expect an answer. Didn’t need one. Just saying it out loud helped.

Allen’s voice comes from the hallway. “You talking to someone?”

God, he heard me.  I nearly dropped the tile. “Just... thinking out loud.”

Allen steps into the doorway, looks down at the half-laid floor and the stack of golden tiles. “Problems?”

“ Yeah, I’m not sure how to finish this.”

Allen removes his toolbelt and crouches down next to me. He picks up a tile, turning it in his hands. “Let’s figure this out. You got a pencil?”

I hand him the pencil I keep behind my ear. “ But you’re a plumber?”

“That’s true, but I’ve done a lot of tiling too. Let’s figure it out.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem. I like seeing a place come together. Especially when it’s got heart.”

The last tile clicks into place with a satisfying thunk. I sit back on my heels, wipe the sweat from my brow, and let myself admire the floor. Golden wood tile, staggered just right.

 It’s not perfect, but it’s mine. The kind of space that feels like it’s waiting for bare feet and quiet mornings.

We both  groan as we stand.  Pain runs down both legs and my back “Ouch.”  I sit on the edge of the tub.  I stretch out my left leg with a wince. “Damn knees. I used to bounce back faster.”

“Tell me about it. Last tile job I did, I spent two days crawling around a laundry room—damn tiny space, but the homeowner wanted the tiles run in a herringbone pattern. Took forever but they paid me well for it.”

 “Herringbone? That’s ambitious.”

“Yeah, and she changed her mind halfway through. Wanted it rotated forty-five degrees. I nearly quit on the spot.”

I groan as  I shift my weight to my left leg and stretch  out my right one. “I’m just trying to get this staggered pattern to behave. Feels like it’s fighting me.”

Allen  responds, “They always do. But once it clicks, it’s like music. You’ll get there.”

 “Thanks for sticking around.”

Allen packs up his gear and gives me a thumbs up.. “You’re good to go, man. Nice work.”
“Thanks. Appreciate the help.”
He heads out, and I’m alone again.

I walk through the house slowly, dad’s tool bag slung over one shoulder. The place smells like sawdust and fresh paint. Still half a construction zone, but it’s starting to feel like a home. My home. “ Dad, you’d really like this house.”

I stop in the living room. The walls are bare, the floor still rough, but I can see it—soft light, a couch that doesn’t hurt my back, maybe a rug Izzy would tease me about.

I move to the kitchen. It’s got great bones. I’ll finish this room myself.  I can hang the new cabinets, paint and then I’ll just have to pay to have the counters put in. 

Next I’ll do  the primary bedroom-  all it needs is paint and the floors refinished. Easy-peasy.  I can handle that.

The rest—guest room, office, hallway—I’ll tackle piece by piece.

I think of Izzy on the deck this morning, flour on her apron, grief in her eyes, and that quiet strength she doesn’t even know she has. I think of Miss Alice’s pies -her secret weapons. I chuckle as I walk down the hall. “You win, Miss Alice. I’m staying.”

Staying does cause problems though- mostly money.

I’ll  have to watch every dollar-stretch the budget- maybe get a job.

I’ve got two months left on my apartment lease. Two months to get this house livable.  After that, I’m moving in.

 

 

Chapter Twenty

Izzy

 

Unable to sleep again last night, I got up, fixed coffee, ate a leftover hand pie and came out to start my day.  Its’s real early, the sun hasn’t even cleared the rooftops yet. I take a deep breath. Morning air smells so clean, with just a  hint of rosemary and dew. This time of day is my favorite—before the world gets noisy, before any intrusions. My mind instantly goes to Joe.

Wait,  He’s not an intrusion. I want him to come over.  Wow, that’s  new.  I really am  changing.

  I start by the back gate where some dead flowers need to be pulled and replaced. Kneeling in the damp soil with a trowel in one hand,  I pull on a  stubborn root.  Stop fighting me, damn it.

A rustle near the shed makes me glance up. The neighborhood cat, a scrappy  orange tabby with one torn ear and a limp that comes and goes, pads toward me like he owns the place.

“Well, look who’s here, His royal highness.” I say softly. “You’re early.”

He meows once, then sits down with the patience of someone who knows the routine. He meows again and looks back in the direction of the shed. The next meow is drawn out and louder- like he’s complaining.

” Okay, I’m going. You don’t have to yell at me.”

 I wipe my hands on my overalls and walk to the shed. On the second shelf, behind the twine and garden gloves, is a small tin of treats I keep just for him. I shake a few into my palm and crouch.

“You’re spoiled, you know that?” I murmur, watching him crunch.

I sit back on my heels, and he noses my wrist. He reminds me of Molly—of the way she used to kneel just like this, coaxing strays with bits of sandwich crust and whispered promises. We were going to get her a puppy for her next birthday. A golden retriever, maybe. Something floppy and joyful. But we never did. She died before the party, before the cake, before the puppy.

I swallow hard. The cat blinks at me, slow and solemn.

“I’ve never had a pet,” I say aloud. “ Couldn’t bear it not without Molly.”

He rubs against my knee, then wanders off toward the fence.

I watch him go, heart aching in that old, familiar way.

 It hits me like a sledgehammer. I’m lonely-have been for really long time.

Miss Alice adds her two cents, “ Do something about it.”

Maybe it’s time to get a pet.  Something to be there during the long days and nights.

 Not a cat—too close to those memories.

But a dog. A rescue. One nobody else wants. Three-legged, scarred, maybe a little grumpy.  A dog who’s been through the rough and still  finds a way to wag his tail.

I smile to myself. “Miss Alice, I swear, if I find a dog like that, I’m naming it after you.”

The wind stirs the rosemary.

I laugh, knowing it’s Miss Alice telling me what she thinks of that idea.  “ I’m only kidding you. Calm down. There will only ever be one Miss Alice  in my life.”

After conquering the dead plants, I decide that’s enough for now and head inside.

I rinse my hands, make a cup of coffee, and sit at the kitchen table with my laptop. The house is quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of settling wood. I type in “local dog rescues near me” and scroll through the listings. Most of them have glossy photos—puppies with bows, sleek shepherds, smiling volunteers.

But one site catches my eye. No frills. Just a list of dogs and their stories. I click “Contact” and dial the number.

A woman answers, cheerful but tired. “Second Chance Rescue, this is Marla.”

“Hi,” I say. “I’m looking to adopt. I—” I pause, steadying my voice. “I lost my daughter a few years ago. We were going to get her a puppy. I never did. But I think I’m ready now. I’m not looking for perfect. I want a dog who’s a survivor and needs a second chance.”

Marla is quiet for a beat. Then she says, “I’ve got just the crew for you.”

We talk for ten minutes. I tell her about the house, the yard, the rosemary. I tell her I’m housebound. That’s as close to the truth as I want to get. She tells me about three dogs she thinks I should meet. She offers to bring them by tomorrow.

The next afternoon, I’m in the yard again when the van pulls up. My stomach tightens.

I thought I was ready. I made the call. I said the words. But now that someone’s actually here—driving up my street, parking in front of my house—I freeze.

Can I really let this woman into my space?

I hover near the porch, heart thudding. The gate’s open. The rosemary’s blooming. I’ve done the work. But still—I hesitate.

Then the van door slides open, and Marla steps out. She’s an older Black woman with pure white hair dressed in a blue running suit.

I call out from behind the gate. “Marla, I hope you understand but I can’t let you inside my yard. I haven’t had anyone in here for years. Except Joe.  I know I’m weird but can I please see the dogs alone.”

Marla stands still and stares at the fence for a minute. “ I get it. The dog is going to be your bridge back to people. Right?”

“Something like that. I can admit I’m lonely and need someone, some thing to be my friend.”

“Let’s do this then. I’ll bring each dog to the gate for you. We’ll talk over the fence.”

“Thank you.”

The first is an fawn colored boxer, gray around the muzzle, with a slow, deliberate gait. He sniffs the rosemary and settles under the shade like he’s been here before. He seems more interested in the yard than in me.

The second is a three-legged mutt—brown and black and who-knows-what. He hops toward me, tail wagging like it’s his job. He’s wiggly and full of energy. Demanding attention.

The third is white with black patches all over. A scarred pit bull, quiet and watchful,  with a pink colored scar patch where her left ear was. Marla tells me she was rescued from a fighting ring. She doesn’t flinch when I reach out. Just leans in, gentle and solid.

I sit cross-legged on the grass, letting them come to me. I pet each one.

I  call over to Marla. “They’re all perfect.”

“Take your time.”

The pit bull nudges my arm.

I laugh. “Okay, okay. I’ll pet you.”

I’m surrounded by fur and breath and quiet acceptance. The old boxer rests his head on my knee. The three-legged mutt flops beside me, tail thumping against the rosemary. And the pit bull  looks into my eyes then leans in- her weight gentle, her eyes steady.

I love them all but I could only keep one. I take a minute with each dog but when I look into the pit bull’s eyes—sad, soft, searching—I know.

She’s the one.

Still, I hesitate. I  walk over to the fence and ask  Marla. “Can she be trusted?”

Marla doesn’t flinch. “She’s been through obedience school. We put her through every scenario—kids, loud noises, food guarding, strangers. She passed with flying colors. She’s solid.”

 “It’s not her I don’t trust. It’s the stories. The headlines about her breed.”

Marla adds, “She’s not a headline. She’s Grace.”

I blink. “Grace?”

“That’s what we’ve been calling her. But you can change it.”

I look back at the dog. She’s still leaning into me, calm and present. I stroke the fur along her shoulder, feel the rough patches where scars have healed.

“No,” I say. “Grace fits.”

She licks my wrist, just once, then settles beside me like she’s been here forever.

I laugh softly. “Miss Alice, I know what you’re thinking. But don’t worry. There’s only one of you. And now there’s Grace.”

“Okay then,” I say to Marla. “I’d like to offer Grace a new home—if she wants to stay.”

Grace’s whole body wags in response.

“Well then, Izzy,” Marla says, “You have a new family member.”

I walk through the garden, Grace trots beside me, her steps steady, her head low, sniffing everything like it’s a test she intends to pass. I walk her through the yard like I’m introducing her to old friends.

“This is the vegetable plot,” I say, pointing to the raised beds. “Tomatoes, mostly. They’re stubborn. Like me.”

She pauses at the rosemary bush, tail swaying. I swear she inhales deeper, like she knows it matters.

“These gnomes?” I gesture toward the mismatched crew lining the walkway. “These guys guard the yard.  Grace, one of your jobs will be to help them. What do you say.”

 She wags her tail and gives me a big huff.

I point out some of the older gnomes. “That one’s missing a foot. That one’s got a cracked hat. You’ll fit right in.”

Grace sniffs each one, then circles the shed. She pauses at the door, ears perked. I open it and let her peek inside.

“Not much in here but tools and memories,” I murmur. “You’re welcome to both.”  I make a mental note-better get some dog treats to keep next to the cats stash.

Inside the house, I spread an old quilt in the corner of the living room. It’s faded blue with frayed edges, soft from years of use. Grace noses it once, then circles and settles like she’s done it a hundred times.

I sit beside her, watching her breathe. “I didn’t plan this part,” I admit. “No food. No bowls. No leash. Just you and me and a quilt.”

I grab my laptop and start searching. “Dog supplies, same-day delivery.” I click through listings, choosing sturdy things. A collar that won’t fray. A bowl that won’t tip. A toy shaped like a heart. I add a bag of kibble and a soft brush. I don’t know what she likes yet, but I’ll learn.

The doorbell rings two hours later. Grace bolts upright, body tense, ears forward. She lets out one sharp bark—low, protective.

“It’s okay,” I say, standing slowly. “Just the delivery.”

I call through the door, “Can you see the big box next to the door? Please put the bags in there. I’ve left a tip in there for you too.”

“Okay, lady.”

Grace doesn’t move until I retrieve the supplies from the box. Only then does she relax, tail wagging once, then twice. She noses my hand, checking in.

“You’re already guarding me,” I whisper. “Already mine.”

I unpack the box on the floor. Grace watches every move. I hold up the collar. “I asked  the salesgirl for one to fit a large pitbull.  She told me they had a  purple one.  I knew it would work. Purple for Miss Alice.

“Let’s try this on, huh?” Grace leans in, patient. I buckle it gently around her neck. It fits perfectly.

Miss Alice’s voice floats through my head, amused and proud. “That’ll do, child.”

I smile. “Yeah. It really will.”