Page 27 of Fang Fatale

"Still going through with it?" she asks.

"Absolutely."

She hands me one of the mugs before nodding toward Barnaby.

"He has issues. Leaks at inconvenient times, terrified of thunderstorms, and he's declared war on most shoes."

I smile.

"We all have issues."

Her expression softens.

Two weeks ago, she'd found me bruised, crying, and unable to explain whose blood stained my shirt. She never asked questions. She simply tucked me into the supply closet between the pee pads and an incontinent border collie until morning.

Some kindnesses are louder than words.

Without another comment, she slides the adoption paperwork across the counter.

I read every page.

Then I read them again.

Old habits.

Old survival instincts.

Contracts had taught me that the most dangerous words were usually buried in the smallest print.

I linger over every clause before finally reaching the signature line.

Birdie Longfellow.

Just my name.

No permission.

No approval.

No one waiting to tell me I'd signed the wrong place.

I press the pen to paper.

One smooth signature.

One simple choice.

Mine.

Ruth flips through the pages, stamps the final sheet with theatrical flair, and smiles.

"Congratulations. You've officially adopted a creature less functional than most houseplants."

She scratches Barnaby behind the ears.

"No take-backs."

"I wouldn't dream of it."