Kitchens.
Because that’s where decisions always happen—between the sink and the fridge and a stack of mail you’re ignoring. Jack set the box on the island and peeled it open. Inside: two boxes of teething crackers, outlet caps, a cheap stuffed fox with ridiculous eyes, and a pack of wipes big enough to diaper the state.
Molly’s throat burned again. “I don’t know how to repay any of this.”
“You don’t owe us for being safe,” Jack said. “You never will.”
“What about joining?” The word felt like a step onto black ice. “If I said we wanted to stay. For real. Are there dues? You said gardens and workshops and community halls. Do we put our names on a chore chart?”
“Our pack has a lot of businesses and does very well for itself. But still some folks donate money; most donate their time. You
