I shrug in response to his question. "He enjoys it. He spends his day talking music with customers and gets a great discount." In the two weeks he's been there, his—our?—record collection has expanded to twice its original size. Every day he comes home with some sort of present for me, a goofy smile on his face.

The job is good for him. I've never seen him smile so much.

Also have to admit...I'm not doing well being left home alone so much.

"Good." Harold tips his head, studying me. "And how about you?"

"I'm..." Honesty, right? "I've been worse."

He nods once and, almost like an afterthought, he pulls out a business card from his desk drawer. "Here. Take this."

I do. The name on the card in professional, green print is Amelia Dumar, Psy.D.. I glance up at Harold. "What is it?"

"My cousin." He leans back in his expensive leather chair, fingers laced together. "She's a psychologist. I was talking to her a little about your situation—" before I can flip out, he adds, "—no details, I promise, and she said to contact her. You and Adam both."

I look at the card. Maybe I have money for bills and we're okay for now, but paying out-of-pocket for a shrink?

"Pro-bono, she said." Harold studies me, like he knows precisely what I'm thinking. "Give her a call if you want. She'll be expecting you."

Nodding, I wrap my hand around the business card. I could cram it in my front pocket because the front pockets are for things I get rid of later. Receipts. Gum wrappers. Maybe I should trash it. Last time I saw a shrink, he put me on medication and I never saw him again. Adam says he doesn't think that's what either of us needs.

I thank Harold and I tuck the card into my back pocket, behind my wallet. Safe and sound.

#

Now that kitten-season has ended, the shelter is quieter than usual. In a few weeks, business will pick back up for Christmas. Families looking for a new pet. The sad statistics are that a large percentage of those cats and dogs will end up right back here, but there are still a few of them who will live out their lives with their new families. Some will be saved. Not all, but some. It's better than none.

The dog with the crippled leg Adam and I saw last time we were here is still in the quarantined section. I glance around to make sure no one is watching, and then duck under the rope. The dog lifts his head and eyes me warily. I wonder if he remembers me snapping at Adam last time. My stomach knots up.

"Hey," I whisper. Dog ducks his head with an appraising stare, then slowly rises to his feet and hobbles over. Up close, now that I'm paying more attention, it looks as though the bone in his leg is deformed, twisted at an odd angle like it didn't know which way to grow. I push my fingers into the kennel for him to lick, and I scratch under his chin. His good ear flops over and his half-missing one sticks straight up. The stitches are still there, but the painful redness is gone. It's starting to heal.