“It’s a migraine,” I say softly. “It may be a side effect of the anesthesia. It happens. Ivy will speak to your surgeon and ask her to prescribe a migraine medication for you. Once it’s called in and ready, Mom will drop it off. Then, we’ll balance that with your pain pills.”

“Oh, never had a migraine before.”

“Yeah, they suck.” I slip my fingers under the cold icepack, gently massaging her temples.

Her crinkled brow releases immediately, and the tension in her shoulders deflates.

“Grady, thank you.”

Her genuineness catches me off guard. I hear thank you’s all the time, quick responses to me taking care of a pet or solving a cattle problem. Mom rattles off thank you’s as often as please’s, especially when her tasks get done. Even Marigold says it easily now—a social expectation she’s learned well. Thank you’s drop into my don’t-care file along with a dictionary of words that are nice, but don’t mean much.

Marina is a thank-you-type person, but I feel warmed by her gratitude for such simple things as a phone call and an ice pack—warmed by her generally.

There’s a delicate strength to her that shines through her beauty. It makes me think of my grandmother’s heavy crystal dishes that Mom pulls out for Thanksgiving. How the cut glass reflects the candlelight. Soft and strong together.

Mom’s words come to mind, how Marnie would haggle for her mom’s pills at fifteen. There’s no mom here now, fussing over her like mine would, no buzz of her phone, asking if she’s okay, no nothing. Hell, she couldn’t even reach out to one person to pick her up from the hospital.

She’s lived in this town since she was a teenager. Where the fuck are her friends, at least?

Marina, how the hell are you so alone?

If she were a recluse or an asshole, I’d get it. I’m the asshole who tries to be a recluse, and it doesn’t work out most of the time; avoiding people is hard work. But she’s friendly, outgoing, beautiful, even interesting. She’s the type who’d befriend anyone. But no one’s here for her.

Marina’s existence comes into focus as I rub her head. She’s a fucking golden retriever, friendly and happy-go-lucky, almost to a fault, always smiling. But without a family. Close connections aren’t inherent for her. She exists in the background of other people’s lives at Sunny’s. She might as well be a mascot—everyone’s happy to see her, but no one takes her home.