Page 11 of Interference

Anthony undid his cats’ harnesses in the kitchen. Moose immediately trotted into the living room and heaved himself onto the giant cat tree by the window. Bear went to the food dish.

While the cats enjoyed their freedom, Anthony led me and Lily down the hall. I quietly prayed his guest room wasn’t on one of the upper floors; this house had to be at least three stories, and just thinking about the climb made every joint in my body ache with preemptive fatigue.

Luck was once again on my side today—the guest room was at the end of a long hall that didn’t have any stairs. Anthony pushed open the door and motioned for us to go in.

“It has its own bathroom,” he said as we stepped inside. “I always keep the drawers and cabinets stocked with anything a guest might need, so help yourself.” He gestured over his shoulder. “If you need to do any laundry, the laundry room is downstairs.”

If I needed to do laundry. Right. There was no “if” about it.

“Thanks. I’ll, um…” I tugged at my jacket and made a face. “Probably take you up on that.”

He didn’t so much as wrinkle his nose. “No problem. The stairs are across the hall. Just go down, and it’s on your left.”

I nodded. I could handle that. Stairs wore me out, but I could manage, especially if it meant clean clothes.

Beside me, Lily sat down, and I patted her neck. “She, um… She usually sleeps close to me. If you’d rather she didn’t sleep on the bed, I can—”

“Are you kidding?” He laughed. “My boys both sleep with me. She can’t shed any worse than they do.”

I wanted to say, “You’d be surprised.” After all, shorthaired dogs were like shorthaired cats—they could shed a lot. But I didn’t want to talk him out of allowing Lily to sleep next to me; she was clingy under the best of circumstances, and after the last few months, well, I was probably her security blanket as much as she was mine.

So I let the subject drop. “Do you mind if I grab a shower?”

“Not at all.” He paused. “Though now that I think about it, I didn’t put towels back in here last time someone stayed—anyway, let me get you some towels.”

“Thanks.”

He brought a stack of towels along with an empty laundry basket. He also brought the bag of food for Lily along with a huge bowl for water.

“She’s welcome to eat in the kitchen,” he explained. “But this way the cats stay out of her bowl and out of her way, and she can sort of settle in here.”

“Good idea. Thanks.”

Then he left me to it.

Of course, priority one was my dog. I took off her vest again so she could relax, and then I filled her food and water dishes about halfway, just so she wouldn’t stuff herself and get sick. I was afraid for a hot minute she wouldn’t like the food, but she dove right in and crunched happily.

With Lily fed, I focused on myself and that shower that sounded absolutely amazing.

I was halfway undressed when I realized Anthony hadn’t asked me to take off my shoes on the way in. Maybe he didn’t want to know what homeless socks smelled like? And all things considered, my battered old boots were relatively clean, so at least I hadn’t tracked anything into his house.

I sat on the edge of the bed to unlace my boots. After I slid off the left one, I carefully removed the right. I debated taking off my prosthetic, too. Showering while wearing one wasn’t a good idea, but I was too afraid of pushing my luck with Anthony to ask if he had something I could use as a shower chair. Especially since regular chairs weren’t safe for that; they needed non-skid feet.

One shower with my prosthetic on wouldn’t be the end of the world.

I pulled some clean clothes out of my rucksack and took them out of the plastic grocery bags I’d used to keep them dry. They were, fortunately, still as clean as they’d been since my last trip to the laundromat. I always kept a couple of sets of clothes clean just in case I couldn’t do laundry for a while; at least then if what I was wearing got wet or something, I could change into something clean. I took what small comforts I could get out there.

I found my shaving kit in the rucksack, and took that and my clothes into the bathroom.

When I turned on the light, my heart jumped. The shower was not only huge and inviting, it had a removable showerhead and a bench.

Was I dreaming? Because like two hours ago, I’d been on the verge of panicked tears over where my dog would sleep tonight. Now I was in a palatial house, my dog had more food and comforts than she’d had in ages, and I had access to a shower with a place to sit down.

Forget dreaming. Was I dead?

Maybe. Maybe not. But one thing was for damn sure—this shower was heaven.

Hot water. Actual pressure. No fear that someone would steal my prosthetic if I took it off (which I did, leaving it just outside the shower stall). No worrying that, if I wore it into the shower, it would slip out from under me and put me on my ass. No stressing about how long the water would last or if someone would start banging on the door to tell me my time was up.

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