Part 6
“Yes,” Dean said. “It’s yours. The dead bolt sticks if you turn it too fast.”
Owen threaded the frayed cord around two fingers and put the key in his pocket. Dean walked him to Rachel’s car and confirmed the next Wednesday.
Six weeks later, Dean was kneeling beside the front steps with the storm door laid across two padded sawhorses. Its old closer had begun slamming hard enough to shake the glass, and June had stopped approaching the entry whenever the metal arm hissed.
Her adoption had become final the previous afternoon after Dr. Ortiz cleared her medically and Beth completed the county’s placement checks.
June watched from the shade beside the porch, wearing the soft chest harness Dr. Ortiz had fitted for her. Fur covered most of the pale ridge around her neck, though her back paw still dragged when she tired. Some mornings she ate only after Dean left the room, and a thunderstorm could still undo several good nights.
Dean had stopped writing BAD NIGHT in the margin of the medication log. He recorded what June ate and left the rest blank.
A car door closed at the curb. Rachel’s sedan idled beside the mailbox while Owen took a canvas duffel from the back seat. The canvas bag was new, still creased from the store.
Dean stood, wiping his palms on his jeans. Owen came up the walk, stepped around the tools, and fitted the brass key into the front-door lock. He turned it too fast, met the sticking dead bolt, then eased it back and tried again.
Rachel lowered her window. “Nine tomorrow morning?”
Owen looked at Dean.
“Nine’s fine,” Dean said.
Rachel waited until Owen carried the duffel inside, then checked the clock on the dashboard. “Text me when you get him to practice.” Dean nodded, and she drove away.
Dean looked at the open door. “You’re staying?”
“One night.”
“All right.”
“You can sound a little happier than that.”
Dean smiled. “I’m trying not to scare you off.”
“Try less hard.”
Owen left the duffel in the room off the kitchen and came back outside. He crouched near June without reaching for her. She smelled his knuckles, then looked past him at the storm door and licked her lips.
“She still hates it?”
“The old closer. We’ll see about this one.”
Together, they lifted the door onto its hinges. Owen held the weight while Dean drove the top screws, both of them swearing when the middle hinge slipped out of alignment. June remained near the bushes, following each movement of the silver arm with her eyes.
Once the door was secure, Dean adjusted the closer so it moved slowly. He opened the door halfway and let go. It traveled inward without slamming, but the mechanism released a faint hydraulic sigh.
June’s legs stiffened. Dean caught the door before it shut.
“That’s enough,” he said.
“She has to come through it sometime,” Owen said.
“She does.”
Owen looked from June to Dean. “But not because we drag her.”
“No.”
They propped the door open with the rubber wheel chock Dean kept behind his truck. June came as far as the bottom step, smelled the air, and retreated when the glass reflected her movement.
Dean gathered the tools. Owen carried the screwdriver case into the garage and set it beside the bicycle wheel they had finally trued the week before.
“Do I have sheets?” Owen asked.
“Hall closet. Top shelf.”
“The room still has the baseball ones.”
“They’re clean.”
“I was twelve when you bought those.”
“You liked baseball.”
“I still like baseball. I don’t want to sleep inside one.”
Dean shut the tool drawer. “There should be gray ones in the closet.”
They went inside through the open front doorway, leaving the storm door propped wide. June stayed in the fenced yard. Dean could see her from the hall, standing in the narrow strip of shade with her harness on and no lead attached.
Owen returned carrying a folded set of gray sheets. “These?”
“Those fit.”
He started toward the room, then noticed Dean watching June. “She okay out there?”
“For a few minutes.”
June had moved onto the first step. Her head was low, and the scar showed through the thin fur when she stretched her neck toward the opening. The wheel chock held the door wide, but the glass still trembled lightly whenever the breeze reached it.
Dean went to the porch and sat on the top step. He left both hands on his knees.
Owen stood behind him with the sheets against his chest. “Could we take the door off again?”
“We could.”
“Are we going to?”
Dean watched June smell the wooden sill. “Not yet.”
A delivery truck rattled along the road, and June turned toward it. Her body tightened as if she expected something to pull her where she did not want to go.
Nothing did.
Through the open doorway, Dean could see Owen’s duffel against the wall and the corner of the old key cord sticking out of his pocket.
“I’m only staying this once,” Owen said.
“I heard you.”
Owen shifted the sheets to one arm. “You’re doing that thing where you agree too carefully.”
Dean looked back at him. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Owen’s mouth tightened, but he did not look away. “That’s better.”
June placed one paw on the second step. The storm door gave a small metallic tap against the rubber chock, and she froze. Dean remained where he was.
Owen came closer and put his shoulder against the door so the wind could not move it. The clean sheets sagged under his other arm, one gray corner nearly touching the floor.
June looked at Dean, then at Owen. She smelled the sill again. No one reached down to lift her, praise her, or hurry her past the thing she feared.
Owen held the door wide.
June raised her head, stepped over the threshold, and went inside.