ASTRID
I walk into the humane society kennel as the attendant turns over the OPEN sign. It’s less chaotic, and that shows they’ve been in for a while, setting up and cleaning the stalls. I learned that animals are a lot more like toddlers. They demand so much attention and can be loud, too.
A young woman hurries past me with a German shepherd under her arms. She’s whimpering, her hair ruffled, her shirt has coffee stains, and something darker. The attendant holds the door open for her and grabs the animal from her arms. She motions at the bench, but the woman shakes her head and trails after her, her palm over her mouth.
Swallowingʻğg a lump, I tear my gaze away from them and exhale slowly. I don’t understand Ava Rock's reason for choosing to meet here. When I texted her about the book
