Page 100 of The Woman in the Warehouse

“Only?” my mother asked, pausing in her sweeping.

“Only,” I confirmed. “All the disgusting different flavors. But only pizza rolls. From the freezer,” I added, knowing it would get her hackles up.

“Does he not have the money to eat right?”

“Considering how much Saylor paid him for very little work, it’s not a money thing.”

“The freezer pizza rolls?” she asked, lip curling.

“No one really makes them fresh.”

“I can make him some,” she said, and I could already tell I’d lost her to her plans. “Do you think I have enough time to get to the store before they get back?”

“I think Keith is going to want the entire life stories of each of the dogs before he decides, so yeah.”

“Okay. I’m running to the market,” she said, patting Fury on the head, grabbing her purse, and heading out.

By the time Keith and Saylor got back, close to dinnertime, Keith beaming, Saylor looking like she’d been put through the wringer, my mother was just about to pull homemade pizza rolls out of the oven.

“How’d it go?” I asked as Saylor dropped down next to me, making a whining sound as Keith walked inward with his comically obese English Bulldog walked further into the apartment, letting Fury smell them before they kept going.

“Great!” Keith declared. “Meet Petunia,” he said, beaming down at the dog who was panting heavily, despite the apartment being comfortable.

“Petunia?” I repeated.

“She’s a hefty lady, but the woman at the shelter said that she’s doing well on her diet,” Keith told us as the dog dropped down on the floor, out cold in seconds.

“Do not feed her pizza rolls, no matter how much she begs,” Saylor told him.

“Speaking of pizza rolls,” my mother said, walking over with a plate full of them, some homemade marinara sauce in a ramekin in the center.

Keith’s eyes went huge as he looked at them.

“These are fancy-ass pizza rolls,” he declared.

“They’re homemade,” my mother agreed, nodding. “Without all those nasty preservatives. Try one,” she said as she, I shit you not, reached to tuck a napkin into Keith’s collar.

“I think your mother just gained another son,” Saylor said, snuggling into me.

“Hey, that’s fine by me. It will stop her pestering me about when we’re gonna have kids,” I said, placing my hand on her thigh.

“She asked that already?” Saylor asked.

“Yep.”

“You want kids, don’t you?” she asked.

“Always have,” I said.

“I never really gave it thought before,” Saylor admitted. “But I think… if I were ever going to have any, I’d want to have them with you.”

“We’ve got time,” I said.

“Yeah,” she agreed as we listened to my mother and Keith prattle on about Petunia’s birth sign, her life with an elderly man who overfed her, her trauma at his sudden death, then the trauma of living in the shelter where no one loved or cared about her. My mom had to unravel some paper towels to dab at her eyes.

And by the time Keith, Petunia, and my mother were getting ready to leave, Keith had convinced my mother that she needed to go rescue herself a dog as well.

And, what’s more, my mother agreed.

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