Page 10 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

By the time Max and I left Avery’s, the sky had turned that wonderful blue-gray New York evenings did so well, when the light softened just enough to make even scaffolding look beautiful. The air had cooled enough to be pleasant, and the sidewalks in the Village were still busy.

Max walked at my left knee, his gait as smooth and efficient as I imagined it had been when he was on actual missions in the service.

“I’m just saying,” I told him as we crossed Hudson, “if a man makes half a million dollars a year, he should at minimum be able to remember the name of the person unclogging his toilet.”

Max gave me a quick glance that, on a human, would have read as diplomatic concern.

“Thank you. Exactly.”

He sneezed.

We cut east, then north, leaving behind the prettier brownstones and tucked-away gardens for blocks that felt more mine. We passed the bodega on the corner where the cat slept on top of the beer fridge, the florist whose prices made me break out in hives, a nail salon with three women laughing hard enough to make everyone outside curious, and the Dominican bakery that always smelled like butter and cinnamon. A delivery bike shot past us as the sound of someone arguing affectionately in Italian drifted from a second-floor window. Two women in activewear worth more than three months of my subway fare were being walked by a tiny white dog in a raincoat.

This part of my walk home had become one of my favorite rituals. Maybe because it marked the clean break between the act I put on during the day and the life that was actually mine. Maybe because Max liked routine, and I liked the version of myself I was around him: less polished, more honest.

By the time we reached Hell’s Kitchen, the sidewalks had widened a little, and the buildings had lost some of their charm in favor of practicality. My block was mostly older walk-ups, though it also had a locksmith, a deli that sold those terrible roses in cellophane sleeves, and a dingy dry cleaner that had somehow survived three rent hikes even though I rarely saw people going in there.

My building consisted of three stories of peeling paint, narrow stairs, and a front door that swelled in damp weather, so it had to be shouldered open. The vestibule light had been replaced at some point in the last week, which gave the place the unfamiliar glamour of adequate visibility. I wrestled the door open, let Max in, and climbed the stairs to the second floor with him pacing sedately beside me.

I unlocked the door to my apartment, then stepped inside. It was small enough that you could stand in the kitchen and see every major life choice I’d made in the last three years.

It was also, in my completely unbiased opinion, lovely.

The open-plan living room and kitchen had old hardwood floors that were in dire need of refinishing—the landlord kept promising to do it but never did—and the couch, which I’d found on Facebook Marketplace, was covered in throw blankets to cover the ugly upholstery.

A short hall off the living room led to a small separate bedroom and a bathroom barely wide enough to turn around in.

My little dining table was really a vintage card table I’d sanded and painted myself one sweaty Saturday in August. Thrifted art prints in mismatched frames hung on the walls, and I’d stacked books under the side table because I refused to buy shelving before buying groceries. Off the kitchen was the narrow balcony where my raised planter boxes were crowded with herbs and wildflowers.

One lamp in the corner cast a soft yellow pool over the room, and the whole place smelled faintly like basil, laundry detergent, and dog.

It smelled like home.

I toed off my shoes by the door. Max went straight to his water bowl and drank, then waited for me to begin the rest of his evening routine.

I put on the kettle and made the mistake of reaching for my laptop. Max stepped in front of the coffee table.

“Excuse me.”

He didn’t move.

“I have one email to send.”

His ears tipped forward.

“One,” I said, holding up a finger. “A tiny email. A baby email.”

Max lowered his head, took the laptop sleeve gently between his teeth, and carried it three feet away to the rug.

I stared at him.

He set it down, placed one paw on top of it, and looked back at me.

“That’s excessive and unnecessary.”

He held my gaze.

“You’re not my supervisor.”