After moving in, he’d dedicated all his daily “work” hours to construction. Drawing on the money he’d invested before entering prison and the experience he’d gained working construction in high school, he’d ripped up the carpet and refinished the hardwood floors. He’d smoothed the surface of the walls and ceiling and repainted them off-white. Whenever he’d been unsure about how to do something, he watched how-to videos online or checked out books from the library. In the end, he’d gutted the kitchen and bathroom, keeping nothing but the sinks and tub. He’d installed new unfinished cabinetry and painted it dark gray. After tossing the old countertops in the dumpster, he’d taught himself how to pour concrete counters. He’d installed new appliances and fixtures.

Early on, he’d gone to where he’d stored the belongings from his second life, intending to transfer them here. But as he’d stood, surrounded by the dusty evidence of the person he’d been, his stomach had turned. He was no longer that person with that life.

He’d told the owner of the storage facility he was welcome to the items inside. Then he’d furnished this place with pieces he’d chosen in his mind long ago for his Montana house.

If he’d been in communication with his family or if he’d had friends, no doubt they’d have asked him why he was spending his money and sweat on a place he didn’t own. The benefit of not having friends and not being in communication with his family was that he’d only had to explain his actions to himself.

He’d fixed up this apartment because after seven years in prison he’d needed a good place to live and something to occupy his time. Doing so had kept him sane while stuck in this purgatory between incarceration and Montana.

He carried his coffee to the table, woke his laptop, and opened The Wall Street Journal online. Instead of seeing the headlines, he saw how Finley had looked sitting across from him in her office. Deep blue eyes. Dark shiny hair slipping forward over one shoulder.

Since meeting her, he’d been unable to get her out of his head. He’d existed alone in this apartment before starting work at Furry Tails. Now she existed in these rooms with him.

He no longer did transitions well. So, on his first workday and all day yesterday, he’d struggled to adapt to his new job. Almost fiercely, he’d focused on his responsibilities. He’d done his best to tune out the other employees, the volunteers, the animals, and, most of all, Finley.

She’d emailed him a list of the things she wanted for the website and a link to a design board that included Furry Tails’ logo, color schemes, inspiration photos, and fonts she liked. Otherwise, she’d mostly left him alone.