Part 7
Seven weeks later, the last of the deep snow began sliding from the cabin roof.
The puppies had grown into four different kinds of trouble. One stole socks. Another barked at the iron kettle. Cricket remained the smallest and developed a slight tremor when he was overtired, but Tessa expected him to live a full life if his new family protected him from extreme cold.
Birdie gained fourteen pounds. Her coat came back darker than Noah expected, with a copper stripe along her spine. She no longer placed herself between the puppies and every person who entered the house, though she still counted them after visitors left.
Mary Sloan handled the adoption matches. Noah attended interviews but did not choose for anyone. Each puppy went to a home that had been inspected, with veterinary follow-up already scheduled.
Cricket left with a respiratory therapist and her retired husband. They sat on the floor for almost an hour before lifting him. When the man tucked Cricket inside his coat for the walk to the car, Noah turned toward the window.
Birdie touched each puppy before it left.
After the final carrier disappeared down the drive, she searched the cabin. She checked beneath the kitchen table, behind the chair and inside the empty exercise pen. Then she returned to the stove and stood over the blankets where the litter had slept.
Noah sat on the floor beside her.
He did not tell her they were safe. He had learned that saying it would not make her search end sooner.
Birdie circled twice and lay down with her back against his leg.
Her adoption became final the following Monday. Lena inspected Birdie’s weight chart, checked the pantry where Noah stored her food, and signed the last page.
“You know you can stop charting every meal,” she said.
“I know.”
“You’re going to?”
“Probably not.”
“At least that problem is easy to monitor.”
Noah fastened Mae’s red collar around Birdie’s neck. The leather was cracked and too loose, so he added a plain nylon collar beneath it for the leash. The old one remained because it belonged to a part of her life he had no right to erase.
Noah called Sam every Sunday.
Their conversations were awkward and often short. Sam did not forgive him on a schedule, and Noah stopped trying to predict when he would. They spoke about the lake, outboard motors, Sam’s physical therapy and, occasionally, the night both men had spent years approaching from opposite sides.
On the first mild Saturday in April, a truck came up Noah’s drive.
Birdie rose at the engine noise and stood near the door. She did not bark.
Sam climbed from the cab carrying a toolbox in his good hand. His left arm still moved carefully, the shoulder lower than the right. Noah had seen photographs, but photographs had not prepared him for the small adaptations woven into every motion.
Sam looked at the cabin, then at Birdie.
“So this is the puppy?”
“Her mother.”
“You left that part out.”
“There were details.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
Noah opened the screen door. Birdie backed into the living room.
He resisted the urge to call her forward.
Sam set the toolbox down and took a seat on the porch step. “I can wait.”
They sat without speaking. Meltwater ticked from the roof. Somewhere beyond the trees, the lake ice shifted with a distant sound like a door dragging across stone.
After several minutes, Birdie came to the threshold.
She smelled Sam’s sleeve, retreated, then returned to inspect the toolbox. Sam kept his hands on his knees.
“Supervisor?” he asked.
“Owner.”
Birdie looked at Noah.
“Apparently,” he added.
Sam laughed. It was not the laugh Noah remembered, but enough of it remained.
Birdie lowered herself across the threshold, her head in the cool porch air and the rest of her body inside the cabin’s warmth. Sam began telling Noah about an outboard motor that had been coughing black smoke since November.
Noah listened.
Behind them, the woodstove clicked as it cooled. Birdie rested her chin on the worn sill, and Noah left the door open until the last of the daylight was gone.