I watch Bea, tenderly holding this thorny creature, touching him fearlessly. She loves something prickly, a bit daunting to approach at first. It unravels the ever-present anxious knot in my chest, a ball of relief unspooling through my limbs. If she can love that little creature, quills and all, maybe she could—

No, not love. Of course not. But perhaps . . . understand me. How rare that would be.

She catches me watching her and smiles. “Sorry, I space out holding him. Some people have therapy dogs. I have a therapy hedgehog.”

“You’re very comfortable with him. Was it always this easy, handling a ball of needles?”

She laughs quietly. “They aren’t that sharp. Not like a porcupine or anything.” She kisses the tip of his nose. “But no, it wasn’t always easy. He needed time and patience. And he balled around my finger once—not fun.”

“How long did it take, becoming comfortable with each other?”

She tips her head, examining Cornelius as he starts to root around her hands, as if looking for something. “I can’t honestly remember. I know it took a while. He’d been with someone else before, someone who liked the idea of a hedgehog but wasn’t prepared for the work.”

“That happens sometimes with pets.”

“Too often. People shouldn’t take on something to love and expect it to be convenient for them. You have to meet a living creature where they are, and love them for who they are, not who you want them to be.”

A faint smile tugs at my mouth. “I don’t think most people come at other humans that way, Bea, let alone animals.”

“Well, they should,” she says, turning toward me. “Want to hold him?”

I steal another glance at his quills. “I think perhaps we should start as hands-off acquaintances.”

“Jamie Westenberg. You aren’t scared, are you?”

“Bea Wilmot, you aren’t trying playground intimidation tactics, are you?”

She smiles wide, one of those big Bea smiles that sends me off-kilter. It turns her eyes the color of the ocean on a sunny day. “Maybe.”

“Well, congratulations. It’s working.” Tackling my cuffs, I unbutton both and roll them carefully up to my elbows. “All right. Tell me what to do.”

She comes closer. “Now, relax and stay nice and still, holding your hands just like that.” Gently she sets her hand next to mine, so our fingers brush, the backs of our hands touching. “Just wait,” she says softly.

Cornelius sniffs from Bea’s hand to mine, startling as he smells my index finger.

“Sorry,” I tell him. “I do a lot of hand sanitizing. I probably smell like antibacterial soap and isopropyl alcohol.”