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“Well, I lived it,” Widow says. “And it was not pretty. Today, it’s chalked up to mass hysteria, straight-up modern Salem witch trials. Everyone was losing their mind and pointing at my family. Pets were disappearing, and the Zedekers have a history of not being overly fond of cats. That, and some old-timers who remembered what went on in 1918 gave the rumor mill a fresh gust of wind. So we made sure everybody’s cage was secured, just in case.”

“Okay,” I say, lifting one shoulder in a shrug.

“Okay?” Widow asks. “But, Ava . . .”

There’s a sharp yip on the wind, a high-pitched call that’s carried into the office on the breeze.

I turn my head, unable to place it. “But what?”

“You just seem awful calm, that’s all,” Widow says, her eyebrows coming together. “I know this place can be a lot. You stay off by yourself enough, surrounded by animals, things can get weird. Believe me, I’m aware.”

“I guess I accept the terms,” I say, returning Widow’s stare.

“What do you mean?”

The high-pitched yip comes again, closer now.

“Does weird shit happen at Restoration Acres?” I ask. “Yeah, it does. Don’t think for one second that I believe what’s happening to my cat’s face is normal. Whatever it is, it’s working in my favor.”

There’s another yip, and this time Widow hears it, her head cocking to the side. She’s up and out the door before I can say anything else, moving with a speed I’ve only seen when something needs to get caged or die of its injuries. When I get outside, Widow is standing in the driveway, hands on her hips, silver hair blowing in the wind. She emits a high, piercing whistle, eyes scanning the horizon. I join her, shade my eyes, and follow her gaze.

“Could it—”

“Shush,” she says, and whistles again, this time sticking her fingers in the edges of her mouth, the way she used to call Panda, the shrillness the only thing he could still hear. The sound comes again, closer, and the long grass in the overgrown fencerow starts to shudder.

“Uh, Widow,” I say, taking a couple steps back. “I don’t know if—”

The grass explodes, and a streak of white tears across the yard, headed straight for us. A puppy comes to a scrambling halt at Widow’s feet, bursting with a joy so uncontrollable he can’t decide if he wants to show her his belly, rub against her legs, or jump up, begging to be held. The result is a whirling, twitching mass of puppy that she can barely get her hands on.

“Hey there,” she says, crouching down. “Where’d you come from?”

“Uh, the compost, I’d say,” I tell her, brushing black dirt off his fur.

“Hello, little man,” Widow says, after he rolls over for the third time, proudly displaying his belly, and everything else he’s got. I go down on my knees next to my boss, scratching his tummy. He squirms, rubbing his face against the ground, tail whipping my wrist. “Aren’t you just the sweetest—”

He rolls to his feet, turns to face me, tongue protruding, and I jerk my hand back.

“What the hell?” I say, fighting the urge to wipe my hand clean.

“What’s wrong?” Widow asks, pulling her chin out of the way as the puppy jumps, repeatedly trying to lick her face while peeing at the same time.

“Don’t you see it?” I ask, taking another step back. “It’s . . .”

Widow finally gets her hand around his wiggling body, picks the puppy up. He flops into the crook of her arm, then looks at me curiously, completely content—because he’s home.

“It’s Panda,” I say.

She holds the puppy out, his bottom wiggling one way, upper half the other, as he barks excitedly, thrilled at whatever the new game is. I watch her gaze travel over him, and her lower lip begins to tremble.

“It’s like you said, kiddo,” she tells me. “I accepted the terms a long time ago.”

Thirty-One

Hailey

You can hear Grandpa screaming no matter where you are, his unintelligible rage audible even at the farthest edge of the property. Quentin finally gave up and resorted to smoking pot on the front porch, the smell reaching me in my bedroom, where my earbuds weren’t quite able to cover the sound, or the rattling of Grandpa’s locked door in its frame. I wander outside, pulling the sleeves of my hoodie around my wrists, crossing my arms against the chill.

“Hey,” Quentin says, nodding when I join him.