Chapter One
Stevie
Sitting at my desk in my bedroom, I put the finishing touches on a logo for a freelance client. I take a last look at the the work, stick the files into Dropbox, and pop the link into an email thanking him for his business.
The client, Choppy Carter, the beer-bellied and mustachioed owner of a pool and hot tub cleaning and repair company called Wet & Wild, wanted to “update” his company’s image. The previous logo was a cartoon illustration of a blonde, busty, bikini clad lady leaning out of a hot tub. It was wet and wild, all right, but several clients had complained in recent years, and he felt he was losing business.
After a month of going back and forth with Choppy, I finally persuaded him to narrow down his choices to one tasteful and minimal design using two uppercase Ws and an ampersand that can be easily applied to everything from his invoices to his trucks. Now, the logo is finished, and he’s paid in full, so that should be that. A good day’s work.
I stretch my arms in the air and look around. “Bean? Beanie Weenie? Where are you?”
Wincing at the pain in my lower back from sitting too long, I twist from side to side as I walk out of my bedroom, also known as my office, down the hall and into the tiny bungalow kitchen, looking for my three-year-old border collie, Bean. Usually, she’s asleep on or beside my bed while I work. The fact that she’s not right now probably means trouble.
“Logan? Is Bean with you?” I ask my best friend and roommate who’s shooting someone in the living room. In a video game, that is.
“What?” he yells back.
I roll my eyes and shout my question louder. He wears headphones, so he never hears me the first time I say something.
“No,” he finally answers. “Uh oh, did she get out?”
“I don’t know. Bean?” I call her again.
If she were in the house, I’d hear the clicking of her toenails against our worn wooden floors, coming to me. I don’t hear them. The back door shudders as I yank it open and poke my head out into the yard. It’s early June and unusually misty and cool today. I shiver.
“Bean?”
Nothing. No streak of black and white fur as my girl rushes across the overgrown, weedy yard to my side. My heart stutters with panic and then sinks. Did she get into Rosa’s yard again? I hear a shrill bark from next door, followed by a great deal of terrified squawking. Yeah, she did.
I run to my room to grab my black hoodie off the back of my desk chair and shove my feet into my white Converse low top shoes, shouting to Logan at the same time. “Bean’s next door again!”
“What?” He pulls one ear pad off his ear as I careen from the hall to the kitchen door again.
“Bean. Rosa. Chickens!”
“I’m right behind you!”
Dodging our worn patio furniture, I sprint to the gate in our wood fence, throw it open, and dart inside our neighbor Rosa’s yard. I hurry to the chicken coop in back and stop short. I really, really hope Rosa’s still at work and not seeing this.
Her ten backyard hens huddle together in a corner of their pen. The poor things squawk, flap their wings, and their already buggy eyes seem extra buggy as my border collie menace does her best to herd them. Not that they understand her intentions.
As far as the hens are concerned, Bean’s pointy white teeth, set into a horrifying slash of a barking mouth, are bent on death and destruction. The chickens can’t know that herding and chasing are in my dog’s blood, and when she sees their plump, wingy bodies, she can’t help but encourage them to stay all together. Her instinct is inevitable. So is the hens’ fear. They scatter.
“Bean! Come!” I shout the command as Logan jogs up beside me. He claps to get her attention.
My dog glances at us, clearly torn. Herd the chickens, like she’d been born to do, or obey her mistress and that guy who’s always around her mistress who sneaks her bites of meat from his plate and takes her on walks? Hmm, choices.
Logan produces a treat from his pocket. Smart. I should have thought to grab one. Showing Bean the incentive, he strolls over and gently takes her collar in hand while she snarfs the biscuit, then he pulls Bean’s leash out of his back pocket. Ugh. Smart again. I only thought of my bare feet and arms before running outside instead of grabbing the necessary tools to bring the escapee home.
As Logan hooks the leash on my dog’s collar and leads her away from the flock, I swear the chickens’ combs and wattles droop with relief. Logan squints apologetically at something—or someone—behind me. I twist around.
“Stevie, I swear, I’m going to call animal control on that dog next time.” Rosa’s expression is pinched. She wears a navy-blue dress with one sensible heel and one bare foot, like she’d walked in from work and just had time to kick a single shoe off before she’d noticed the commotion in the backyard.
“I’m so sorry, Rosa.” I take Bean’s leash from Logan. “I don’t know how she got in here.”
“That’s what you said last time.” Our neighbor eyes Bean. I don’t think she dislikes my dog. She wishes she wouldn’t terrorize her flock, a totally reasonable desire.
“We boarded up the hole in the fence she was getting through,” Logan says.
“Well, obviously she found a new one,” Rosa answers in a clipped tone.
“We’ll find it and get it patched,” I say. “I’m really sorry again. Let me know if any of the hens are hurt. I’ll pay the vet bill.” Bean doesn’t bite them, but sometimes in their panic to get away from her, they peck each other, causing injuries.
“Trust me, I will,” Rosa says.
I sigh. I don’t blame her for being upset, but I wish she didn’t keep chickens. Or that Bean wasn’t so excited about herding them.
Logan takes my arm and mutters in my ear. “C’mon, let’s get out of here. I’ll bring her a pint of gelato later.” He raises his voice again. “See you, Rosa.”
Muttering, she stalks back inside her own bungalow as the chickens fluff their feathers, cluck self-righteously at Bean, and resume pecking at the ground. But I’m sure at least one beady eye on each head stays on the retreating canine.
Back inside our house, I unhook the leash and lean against the kitchen counter, looking at my dog. “Bean, what am I going to do with you?”
Recognizing my disappointed tone, she collapses on the ground, her muzzle on top of her front paws and her eyes upturned to my face, expression mournful. When I don’t relent, she whines and rolls onto her side, showing her belly. How can I stay upset with her when she looks so contrite?
I sit cross-legged next to her and stroke her super soft, fine fur. I don’t know if it soothes her when I pet her, but it works for me. Like a lot of border collies, she’s black along the top of her body, white on her legs and underside, and she has a streak of white around her muzzle and up her nose to the top of her head. The fur around her eyes is black, and the tip of her tail is white.
Logan grabs a reusable water bottle from the fridge, and as he shuts the door, a rumpled and worn piece of paper flutters out from under a Colorado-shaped magnet and falls beside me. While Logan twists the bottle open and drinks, I pick the paper up and absentmindedly scan the familiar faded handwritten items on my list.