“I don’t need to,” I said. “We just need a place where a dog is allowed.”
There was a pause. Then she looked past me—at Sarah in the truck, holding Atticus like he was made of glass.
Her expression softened.
“Come inside,” she said.
The apartment was tiny.
One bedroom. Old cabinets. Radiators that clanked like they were arguing with themselves. But it was clean. Warm.
Safe.
“We’ll waive the pet deposit,” the landlord said quietly as she handed me the keys. “Just… take care of him.”
I swallowed hard. “We will.”
The next few weeks were hard.
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