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So when she says “I would never punch a dog in the dick” with the same gravity as a newscaster on 9/11, I laugh hysterically. And I think maybe, just maybe, there’s the slightest upturn of a smile on the corner of her lips as she turns the lights on.

“What do you think about the dump?”

“I suppose we should wait for Rhonda,” she says. “Unless you think we can get him to come in through the outside run and into one of the caged kennels.”

“We can try. He might bite, though.”

She shakes her head. “He’s scared, not mean. I’ll stay inside and open the run gate; you see if you can steer him in the right direction from outside.”

“Deal.” I head outside, grabbing a pair of gloves from the staff shelf as I do. They’re heavy, but I know if he wanted to, that dog could have it off my hand, skin included. And once he bites me—scared or mean—he’s dead.

He backs into a corner when I go to the gate, front leg dragging. There’s a continuous low growl as I walk in, swinging it shut behind me.

“Hey, buddy,” I say quietly, going down in a crouch so that he doesn’t think I’m trying to intimidate him. “We’re going to get you inside, okay? It’ll be warmer, and there’ll be food and . . .” I’m trying to think of something else enticing when a voice pipes up behind me.

“And surgery, by the looks of it,” Rhonda says.

“I wasn’t going to tell him that part.” Just then Alex opens the run from inside and he turns toward it, teeth on display. Alex backs out of his sight and the warmth emanating from the building is enough to coax him to follow.

“You shouldn’t be in there.” Rhonda pulls the lock off and opens the gate. “He’s mad and hurt and feels cornered. Never know what a threatened animal will do.”

“Sorry,” I say as I slip outside. “We just thought we should try to get him in if we could.”

“Nice idea, but he hurts either of you girls, he gets put down, and I doubt the school sends me any more volunteers.”

I follow her into the office, stripping off the gloves. We’re heading back to the kennels when the barking starts. First thing in the morning is always the worst, which is why I prefer the cat room. Alex doesn’t seem to mind the clamor of a dozen dogs all waking up hungry, sick of being caged, and desperate for attention. The cats just stretch languidly, take jaw-cracking yawns, and then look at you like, “Oh, have you come to feed me? Splendid.”

If the dogs like Alex, then they love Rhonda. I swear they know the second she walks in the door. They don’t have to see her or even hear her, they just get so spontaneously happy some of them literally lose their shit.

Alex has convinced the dump to follow her from the outside run to a kennel. She’s making all the right noises to reassure him, but the cinderblock walls aren’t overly inviting even on a good day. And that dog is not having a good day.

Alex is down in a crouch with her hip holding the kennel door open when the other dogs explode at the sight of Rhonda. The dump, who had taken his freak-out from an eight down to about a two, snarls and shoots forward into the kennel. Alex swings the cage door shut, and it all would’ve been very nicely handled except for the fact that she’s in there with him.

“Get out of there,” Rhonda says.

Alex shakes her head and slides down to the concrete floor, her jeans soaking up the bleach water she’d sprayed around earlier. “Don’t want to startle him,” Alex says tightly.

And while she has a point—the dog’s ruff is up as high as he can get it, his teeth out for more than show, and he’s climbed onto the cot so that he’s got some height on her—I hear something more in Alex’s voice. Even though we’ve exchanged only a handful of words, I know her tone. And I’m pretty sure that dog bit her when he ran past and she’s trying to hide it.

“You probably shouldn’t make any sudden movements,” I say. “Maybe just let him get calmed down and we’ll get you out of there.”

Alex looks at me and nods, while Rhonda eyes the dog warily. He’s still growling, but the snarl is out of his tone. “All right,” she says. “But—”

The doorbell from the front office chimes, sending everybody into a fresh peal of barking. “Christ,” Rhonda mutters, backing away from the kennel door. “Stay here in case he gets it in his head to rip hers off.”

I nod even though I’m unsure what to do if Alex is decapitated, and drop down to my knees to talk to her through the kennel door. “He get you?”

“Right in my butt,” she says, and I start giggling again even though it’s not funny.

“How bad?” I ask.

“I’m bleeding.” Alex lifts her rear off the floor for a second and we share an awkward moment of me investigating her ass through a wire fence.

“Your jeans are ripped, but you’re not bleeding too bad. If Rhonda finds out—”

“I know.”

We look at each other through the wire for a second as the dog relaxes onto its back legs, a whimper escaping as his dangling paw bumps the side of the cot.