Page 8 of Beckett
Lark led me through the property, her chatter filling spaces that might have demanded responses. Pawsitive Connections was bigger than I’d realized yesterday, when exhaustion had narrowed my focus to just the basics. Multiple barns spread across acreage that rolled toward the mountains. Fenced pastures where horses grazed, their breath steaming in the morning air. A training ring with agility equipment.
“We handle all kinds of animals,” Lark explained, guiding me past a pen where goats investigated our presence with rectangular pupils that always made me think of demons. “Started with dogs—service animals, emotional support, some security training. That’s Beckett’s specialty, actually. He’s brilliant with the security dogs, even if they can’t all make the cut.”
We paused at another enclosure where a llama regarded us with magnificent disdain.
“That’s Fernando. He thinks he’s royalty. Probably is, honestly. We use him for therapy sessions sometimes. Amazing how many people find llamas soothing.”
“Therapy?”
“Oh yes. We work with veterans mostly, but also trauma survivors, kids with disabilities. Animals don’t judge. Don’t ask questions. Sometimes that’s exactly what people need.”
My throat tightened. No questions. No judgment. Just existence without examination. “That sounds perfect.”
“It can be. We also rehabilitate animals for rehoming. Some come from bad situations, need to learn to trust again. Others just need basic training so they can find families.” She gestured toward a smaller building. “That’s the cat house. Yes, we call it that on purpose. Currently have twelve residents, ranging from barn cats to a Persian who only drinks filtered water.”
The tour continued—the rabbit hutches, a chicken coop, something Lark called the “small and random” building that housed ferrets, guinea pigs, and a particularly vindictive parrot named Clarence, who apparently knew seventeen different curse words.
“The property extends back to that tree line.” Lark pointed toward the distant edge where forest took over from pasture. “About forty acres total. There’s an old equipment shed back there in the corner, but we don’t use it. Keep meaning to tear it down but never get around to it.”
My pulse quickened. A shed. Deserted. On the corner of the property where no one went.
“Now, let’s talk about your duties.” Lark led me back toward the main barn. “Pretty straightforward. Feeding schedules are posted in each building. Dogs eat twice a day, cats are free-fed but need fresh water constantly. Horses get hay morning and evening, grain once a day. Cleaning is ongoing—kennels, litter boxes, stalls. I’ll show you where all the supplies are.”
She demonstrated the food storage system, the proportions for different-sized animals, where to find cleaning supplies. My hands moved automatically, muscle memory from a life that felt like someone else’s. A life where I’d had normal jobs with normal responsibilities that didn’t include checking every corner for shadows that shouldn’t be there.
“Think you can handle it?”
“Yes.” The word came out more forcefully than I’d expected. “I mean, it’s straightforward. I can definitely handle it.”
“Good.” Lark smiled. She did that a lot, even though it sometimes didn’t reach her eyes. “I’ll work alongside you today, make sure you’ve got everything down before I leave for my conference tomorrow.”
We started with the morning feeding. I measured kibble while Lark told me about each dog in their crate. This one was training for seizure detection. That one had washed out of guide dog school for being too distractible but would make someone a perfect companion. The German shepherd mix in the last kennel was supposed to be learning protection work but?—
“Just doesn’t have the temperament for it,” Lark sighed. “Beautiful dog, smart as anything, but too gentle. Beckett’s been working with him, but some dogs just aren’t meant for security work. We’ll see.”
The shepherd watched me with intelligent brown eyes, tail wagging in slow, hopeful sweeps.
“What’s his name?”
“Jet. Like the gemstone, not the plane. He’s all black except for this one white spot on his chest. We’re not sure what we’re going to do with him. Sweet boy, just not cut out for what he was supposed to do.”
I understood that feeling.
After feeding came cleaning. Physical work that demanded nothing but presence. Scoop, spray, replace bedding. Move to the next kennel. Repeat. My body appreciated this kind of tired—earned exhaustion instead of the overwhelming depletion that came from constant vigilance.
“You really are a natural with them,” Lark observed as we worked. “They can tell you’re safe.”
Safe. If she only knew the danger that followed me like smoke. But I kept my mouth shut, focused on the work.
As the morning wore on, I caught myself glancing toward the corner of the property and the deserted shed Lark had mentioned. From here, I could just make out its outline through the trees. Far enough from the main buildings that no one would notice activity there. Close enough to the outdoor bathroom and shower facilities near the barn that I could maintain basic hygiene.
It might work. God, it might actually work.
Between the shed and the fact that Lark paid cash, I could stay here. Be relatively safe while saving money and figuring out my next move. No hotels eating up my meager funds. No sleeping in my car where anyone could see me, where a tap on the window could mean the end of everything.
The thought of having walls around me, even shed walls, made something in my chest loosen for the first time in weeks.
“I’m going to grab some paperwork from the house,” Lark said. “Can you start on the horse stalls? Let me show you that really quick.”
