A few small yappy-type dogs have gotten his attention when he says, "You should get a job here."

"Why would I do that? I don't need the money." Not for a few more months, anyway. Then...well.

Then.

Yeah.

"Something to do." He shrugs, scratching under one of the dog's chin. "Something that isn't sitting around the apartment all day. Being self-sufficient?"

"Because I'm totally fit to be around people all day." I walk off down the aisle, hoping he'll take the hint and drop the subject. He trails after me.

At the end of the row, in the back corner of the massive room, is a roped-off area of kennels. New arrivals that are quarantined while being tested for diseases and temperament. A few big mutts snarl and bark in my direction. I doubt there's much hope for them. Stupid. So stupid. They're just scared, so they lash out. They're no different than the dog in the far back kennel, huddling and shaking. We all deal with fear differently.

The barking dogs are like Casper. Angry and trying to play tough because they think it'll keep them safe, not realizing that in the end, they're only hurting themselves by pushing everyone away. Then there are the dogs that lay in the back of their kennels, heads down, avoiding eye contact. They are Adam. Keeping their gazes lowered and never confronting anything.

Then there is the dog in the corner, trembling. Before I realize what I'm doing, I'm lifting the rope, ducking beneath, and making my way over to stand in front of its kennel. The tag on his fence says he was brought in yesterday. No name. Guesstimated age: two years.

I look down at him. He looks up at me, tongue lolling out of his mouth as he pants, and his tail thumps feebly against the floor. I press my hand to the chain link and the nameless dog ducks his head, watching me warily, before picking himself up to walk over to me.

Adam lingers close at my side. I hadn't realized he'd followed. "He's kind of a hot mess."

He is. His back right leg is twisted a bit funny. One of his ears is half-missing, lined with stitches where something—metal or the bite of another dog—took a chunk out of it. It's red and swollen like it might be infected. Add that to his weird, marbled coloring, mismatched eyes and the crooked way he walks, he is kind of a mess.

I sink down. The dog sniffs at my fingers. He could bite me. I could get rabies and die. There's a reason this area is closed off to the public. But the dog whimpers quietly then licks me. Adam crouches. The dog's tail wags so hard I think he's going to throw himself off-balance and fall.

Adam slips his fingers through the gate. We're going to get caught, but neither of us seems to care. Dog whines and rolls his eyes—one blue, one brown—to Adam's face and slobbers all over his hand.