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‘So what are they?’

‘It’s actually pretty simple. People come and help out, caring for some of the animals — like Ernie and his ladies here — and they take them on walks, spend time with them, and even read to them.’

‘And that helps? People, I mean.’

‘Yeah, it really does. There we go Miss Moorhen, your five-star accommodation for a few days. Room service will be along to check on you tomorrow and top up your food and water, but I’m afraid no baths for a couple of days.’ Rick watched as she tucked the moorhen — he’d have to try to remember that term — into the pen.

‘How does that help people, though?’ He thought it sounded like a bit of a scam, really. Angela got help, and people paid for the pleasure of cleaning up after her stinky animals.

‘There’s a whole raft of studies and science behind it,’ Angela explained as she locked up the moorhen. ‘When people are around animals, they release more happy hormones — serotonin, prolactin, oxytocin — things that help you relax and destress. And that can help reduce symptoms of depression. Personally, I think being around animals is just good for people. Animals don’t judge you like people do.’ She hobbled over to where Ernie stood, watching and apparently listening, and rubbed his nose. ‘So long as you’re kind to them, they’re usually fine with you. They’ll only attack if they feel scared, or threatened, and they don’t play games, or try to manipulate you. With animals, what you get is what you give — give them your love and your trust, and you’ll get that back in the purest possible form. And that—’ she grinned as Ernie whickered in agreement ‘—is really something very powerful.’

‘Wow. And Ernie does all of that?’

‘And more.’ Angela nodded. ‘Ernie’s especially good with children recovering from trauma . . . the types of things you’d pray no child ever experienced. The thing is, he understands them. His background before he came here . . . it wasn’t good, Rick. We don’t talk about it.’ She pressed her face against the little donkey’s, hugging him to her. ‘But Ernie knows what it’s like to be hurt by someone you should be able to trust, and he gives those kids his understanding, and his support, and he helps them to heal. And maybe they help heal him a bit more too.’

‘Ernie was abused?’ The lump in Rick’s throat made it hard to get his words out, but he found it so difficult to believe. The donkey seemed happy and friendly to him.

‘Like I said, we don’t talk about it. It will never, ever, ever happen again. He — and his drove — are safe and loved here, and they know that.’

‘Right.’ Rick had to swallow hard to be able to speak. ‘And the reading thing?’

‘Oh, that’s much simpler.’ Angela petted her grinning friend, picking bits out of his tufty mane. ‘When kids are reading, or adults learning for the first time, they’re often being judged. There’s someone there waiting to helpfully correct you or help you when you struggle with certain words or get your letters in a muddle. While that’s how most people learn, for some it makes things harder, because you get stressed waiting for the next correction, and then the words and letters jump around a lot more.’

‘You sound like you know what you’re talking about.’

‘I do.’ Angela met his eyes squarely. ‘I’m dyslexic.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’ He wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to say, but how else were you supposed to respond when someone told you they were disabled?

‘What are you apologising for?’ Angela laughed at him. ‘It’s dyslexia. Not like I just told you I’m dying of some painful, terminal disease.’

‘Sorry.’

She laughed at him again. ‘Would you apologise to me for my curly hair?’

‘No, but . . .’

‘Or the fact that I need glasses when it gets late and my astigmatism acts up?’

‘No, but . . .’

‘But nothing, Rick. It’s exactly the same. Part of how I’m made.’

‘Right.’ He wasn’t totally sure what to say to that, so instead he changed the subject by holding up the empty moorhen cage. ‘Where do I put this?’

‘Blankets come inside for washing, cage gets disinfected and then goes back with the others.’

‘Then tea?’ He was already ready for a break.

‘For the animals, yes.’

‘Right.’

‘Furred, four legs, feathered and scaled get fed before humans round here. I hope you’re not squeamish.’ He didn’t think he was, but something about her wicked grin made him take a step back.

He soon learned why she’d grinned. Over an hour of cleaning, chopping, prepping, carting food and bowls back and forth from the makeshift kitchen, and he’d had more than enough. He dreaded to think what the smudges on his jeans were, or whether the splodges on his boots would ever come out.

He’d quite liked the ferrets — with their sleek fur and quick, smart moves . . . right up until he’d learned how disgusting their diet was. And he found it difficult to understand how Angela could go from feeding the birds she was rehabbing from various wounds in different cages and aviaries, to feeding chicks complete with their feathers to the ferrets and weasels.