Part 3Karma Has A Cruel Harvest

My phone rang again—the volunteer was getting impatient. I turned my back on Leila’s screeching breakdown and walked toward the elevators.

A few bystanders tried to stop me, wanting more details, but Mrs. O'Malley barked at them. "I’ve lived next to the Rossis for thirty years! If you want the dirt, ask me. Leave Doris alone!"

I waved a hand of thanks over my shoulder, and she gave me a sharp nod, signaling she had the situation under control.

I made it to the rescue shelter with five minutes to spare. A group of college volunteers met me at the door, ushering me toward the back office. "The adopter is already here," one whispered. "She’s waiting in the quiet room."

The woman had come in after seeing a video we posted of a Golden Retriever. But after walking through the kennels, she ended up adopting a Samoyed as well and donating three months' worth of premium kibble.

Later that evening, I sat in the office, using the shelter’s social media account to post a thank-you note. I tried to push the hospital encounter out of my mind, but it was impossible. The video Mrs. O'Malley’s "audience" had filmed was already going viral locally.

One of the volunteers came in, showing me the comments. People had recognized me from the shelter. "Do you want us to try and get it taken down?" she asked.

I scanned the screen. "No," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "This is 'engagement,' right? The more people see it, the more people see the dogs. Maybe some of these kids will finally get a home."

I figured Damian, a man who lived and breathed for his reputation, would crawl into a hole and stay there after the video went viral. I was wrong. He showed up at the shelter gates before the weekend was over.

After five years, he wanted to "talk."

I stared at him through the chain-link fence for a long minute before finally buzzing him in.

He immediately recoiled, taking several steps back. "Doris, I forgot... my allergies. The dog hair is everywhere. Can we talk outside?"

I didn't answer. I just walked back into the breakroom. Eventually, he followed, holding his sleeve over his nose and mouth, looking around the room with visible disgust. The constant barking from the kennels made him jump every few seconds.

"Doris," he grumbled, his voice muffled. "I’ll give you money. Start a business, move to another city, do whatever you want. Why are you wasting your life with these… animals?"

I took a slow sip of tea, the heat soothing my scorched throat. "The 'animals' actually wag their tails when I feed them, Damian. They’re capable of loyalty. Can you say the same?"

He winced, silenced for a moment. Just as I thought he might finally leave, he pulled an envelope out of his pocket and slid a debit card across the table.

"I admit, I went too far back then. I know your parents’ deaths weren’t directly my fault, but I know I..."

"They were my parents," I cut him off, my voice cracking and turning into a harsh, distorted rasp. "You don't have a father. And your mother is dead. Don't you dare call them yours."

The effort of the outburst made my chest ache. Damian frowned, leaning in. "I wanted to ask at the hospital—what happened to your voice? It doesn't sound like a cold. Why is it so raspy?"

I wanted to scream at him, but as I opened my mouth, the familiar wall of silence hit me. The stress had triggered it again. I had lost my voice entirely.

Get out, I mouthed.

He hesitated, reaching out as if to touch me. I didn't hesitate; I picked up the scruffy little terrier mix that had been napping at my feet and held it toward him. Damian scrambled back, nearly tripping over his own feet as he fled toward the gate.

It took a long time for my heart rate to settle. When I finally went to lock the main gate for the night, I saw something resting on a brick by the curb. The debit card.

I didn't want his money. But then I thought about the mounting vet bills and the empty kibble bins. I thought about the hundred lives depending on me. I picked up the card.