The morning had that coppery October smell—wet leaves, cold metal, coffee. The kind of air that makes you tuck your chin into your scarf and walk faster, as if winter is a person catching up behind you. I’d dropped Molly at Dr. Martinez’s office for her Tuesday wound check and rubbed that soft folded ear she leans into my palm every time, the one the groomer says is “charmingly disobedient.”
“Be good,” I whispered as the tech lifted her like a sack of flour. “No flirting with Dr. M.”
She thumped her tail exactly twice, dignified but pleased, and disappeared through the swinging door. Tuesdays had become our ritual: vet, an hour to kill, pick up coffee somewhere that smells like cinnamon. I didn’t need anything. I told myself that as I pushed open the bell-laden
door at Second Chances and was greeted by the high, citrus-clean scent of detergent and old wood. I always tell myself I don’t need anything, and still I leave with a casserole dish I’ll use once and a sweater that’s almost the color of pumpkin bread. Read more below
