Page 7 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

“How bad was the office?” Avery asked.

I let out a laugh that had more wear on it than humor. “At one point, I was in a partner bathroom with a plunger thinking, wow, all those nights studying for Constitutional Law really led somewhere.”

Avery’s face didn’t change. “Did the toilet survive?”

“Barely. I can’t say the same for my sense of professional mystique.”

“It was always fragile.”

“Fair.”

Avery glared and pointed her spoon at me. She hated when I used throwaway words instead of saying what I meant.

I lifted both hands. “Right. Sorry. Lazy response. You’re correct, and I resent it.”

“There she is,” Avery said. “I was worried the toilet had concussed you.”

I smiled despite myself and took a bite. It was spectacular. Warm and spicy, the flavor burst along my tongue and made me regret every packet of ramen I’d ever called dinner.

“You made this to remind me life could still be good,” I said.

“I made it because the sound of chopping onions soothes Jocko. But I’m glad the reminder came free.”

Jocko was sprawled in the doorway where he could monitor both the front room and the kitchen, his whole body alert even at rest. He and Max had a particular respect for each other, that had been built less on play and more on mutual recognition. They both knew what work was.

That was one of the reasons Max spent so much time here.

People assumed Avery watched him because I worked all day and felt guilty about it. Which, yes, I did feel guilty. I contained multitudes. But I didn’t bring Max here because he couldn’t be left alone. I brought him because he was good at helping to settle the newer dogs, especially the washouts and retirees who had been trained so hard for function that they couldn’t cope with ordinary home life at first.

We continued eating and talking about our respective days, when suddenly, a loud crash came from the front room.

Avery closed her eyes. “That’ll be Steve.”

A second crash followed, this one sounding smaller.

“Or Jocko,” she amended, and I turned to doorway. Sure enough, Jocko wasn’t sprawled in the doorway anymore.

Before either of us moved, Max rose.

He didn’t hurry. That was the thing about him. Panic was for civilians and golden retrievers with poor boundaries. He simply stood, crossed the kitchen, and paused at the archway.

In the front room, the new shepherd mix had shoved herself into the corner between a cot and the bookcase, hackles up, eyes locked on Jocko, who had apparently attempted to remove a toy from a bin and brought three leashes down with it. Socko stood nearby, shivering with concern.

“Leave it,” Avery said from behind me.

Jocko froze.

Max took two steps into the room and stopped almost between the two dogs. He turned his body sideways and lowered his head a fraction. He didn’t stare at the shepherd or crowd her. He just stood there, patient and broad, offering her time to relax.

The shepherd’s growl thinned.

Max yawned.

It was his professional yawn, the one that said: This situation is beneath escalation, and I invite you to join me in having standards.

The shepherd stilled, then slowly, she lowered her head.

Beside me, Avery let out a soft breath.