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Nick told himself he wasn’t going—told himself this in the fogged mirror while the shower ran hot enough to soften his reflection, told himself this while he weighed the shirt in his paw as if it might confess whether it looked “trying too hard” or “not trying at all”—the only two settings he had.
His phone buzzed.
A row of tiny emojis marched across the screen in an ambush: 🥣🐍✨
Then words.
Gary: Hello Nick! Dinner tonight? No pressure! 😁
Nick squinted at the soup-and-snake-and-sparkles, half-expecting a coded threat. In his experience, that meant someone wanted something.
Gary, unfortunately, wanted him to eat.
He watched it until the screen dimmed. He wrote Can’t and deleted it; wrote Busy and deleted that too; wrote Is this a sting operation? and left it there long enough to feel a smile try to form and fail, then erased it without leaving a trace.
The mirror fogged again, turning his reflection into something softer and less certain.
He could hear the counselor’s voice from last week, calm and measured: What do you do when something feels vulnerable?
Nick’s answer had been easy: make it funny, make it small, make it not matter.
He wiped a paw down the glass, clearing a strip. His eyes looked tired in the clean line, older than they had any right to be.
His phone buzzed again.
Gary: Mary says: anytime. No disappointment.
Nick’s throat tightened on the last word.
No disappointment—as if that was even possible. As if he hadn’t been a disappointment since he was ten.
He typed slow, like his paws didn’t trust him.
Nick: I can stop by.
He stared at the message after it sent, waiting for the familiar spike of regret. It came. He ignored it and turned the shower up hotter.
He treated getting ready like a case, ran a list in his head—silent, grim, professional. Shower. Deodorant. Shirt that didn’t scream this was found at the bottom of a laundry pile. Gift. Exit plan.
The gift was the worst part.
He stood in a corner store two blocks from the precinct, pretending he was considering loaves of bread when really he was trying to convince himself he didn’t have to bring anything.
He picked a small bag of soft rolls anyway—still warm from a heated shelf—and a cheap bouquet wrapped in crinkly plastic that promised fresh the way some people promised forever.
He hated the bouquet on sight.
It felt like admitting he wanted to be liked.
It also felt like a raccoon had mugged a rosebush in an alley and wrapped the evidence in crinkly plastic.
A bell jingled above the door as he left, and a raccoon cashier called, “Have a good one,” without looking up.
Nick kept his face in place.
Outside, the city moved around him, busy and indifferent.
There were posters in shop windows about reintegration. About community meetings. About “moving forward together.”
There was also a headline on a street vendor’s paper, the kind that liked to chew the edges of peace: CITY STILL DIVIDED AFTER REPTILE RETURN.
Nick didn’t buy it, but he still felt it—felt it in the way an otter and a gazelle let their conversation swell up around “danger” and “what if it happens again,” then dropped their voices when they noticed his ears, only to raise them again the second they decided he wouldn’t call them on it. He kept walking, shoulders loose on purpose, jaw not quite cooperating.
His phone buzzed.
Judy: You going?
He almost laughed—Detective Hopps. Of course she’d check.
Nick: Define going.
Judy: Nick.
He stopped under a streetlight that was still on even though it was barely evening. The light washed the sidewalk pale and made his fur look silver in the wrong places.
The bouquet rustled in his grip.
He looked down at it like it had personally betrayed him.
Nick: Yeah.
Three dots appeared.
Then:
Judy: Proud of you. Text me if you want a rescue call.
He read it once, then again, like the words might change the third time. Proud of you. He swallowed hard; his throat felt too small for anything honest.
Nick: Don’t get used to it.
Judy: Too late.
He let the screen glow in his paw until the streetlight buzzed.
He started walking again before the warmth in his chest could turn into something dangerous.
Gary’s building sat in a neighborhood that still felt like it was finding its shape.
There were new signs in old windows. There were families moving back into apartments that had sat empty for too long. There were little gardens on balconies—pots of herbs and tiny flowers, stubborn proof that someone intended to stay.
There was also, if you looked hard enough, the edge of watchfulness.
He noticed, because he always did.
A lynx across the street paused mid-step when he saw Nick, eyes narrowing like he was trying to place him. Nick offered a neutral nod.
The lynx didn’t nod back.
The gift bag crinkled when his grip tightened.
Before he could decide whether to turn around, a familiar scarf bobbed through the lobby doors.
Gary spilled out into the evening like he’d been waiting behind the glass for the exact moment Nick arrived.
“Nick!” Gary said, and his voice made the word a celebration without turning it into a demand.
Nick lifted one corner of his mouth. “Hey, buddy.”
Gary’s tongue flicked, quick and pleased. His coils gathered close, making him look smaller than he actually was—polite, contained.
Gary’s eyes flicked to the bouquet.
Nick braced.
“Oh!” Gary said, delighted, then caught himself. He took a breath like the counselor had taught all of them. “Is it alright if I… hug?”
The question landed in Nick’s chest like a weight that didn’t hurt—not can I have it, not you owe me, just a careful is it alright.
Nick’s mouth opened for a joke.
Nothing came.
“Uh,” he said instead, because his body had forgotten how to be normal when kindness showed up with no strings. “Sure. Yeah.”
Gary wrapped one coil around Nick’s shoulders, gentle and warm, careful not to squeeze.
Nick went still for a heartbeat.
Warmth seeped into him anyway.
Gary released him, true to whatever promise he’d made himself.
“Thank you,” Gary said solemnly.
Nick blinked. “For… hugging you?”
Gary nodded, unbothered by the weirdness. “Yes.”
Nick huffed a breath—close enough to a laugh.
Gary’s eyes brightened at the sound. “Come,” he said. “Mary is making food. She is… excited.”
Nick’s ears flicked. “She said that?”
Gary’s face turned careful in a way Nick recognized—handling something fragile.
“She said,” Gary reported, “that she prayed you would come. But she also said to tell you: no disappointment.”
Nick’s steps faltered.
The word prayed snagged on something deep.
His mother’s voice, soft over bedtime stories: We can talk to Jesus about it.
Then the Junior Rangers badge in his paw, shiny and false.
Then the laughing.
Then the tape around his muzzle.
Nick forced his feet to move again.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s… let’s do dinner.”
Gary beamed and led him inside.
The apartment was warm—not just heated, warm in the way a place got when it expected someone. Tile under Nick’s pads held the day’s sunlight like it had learned to be generous, and a small heat lamp glowed in the corner with a steady hum that softened the air. The smell hit him next: spices and something sweet underneath, onions caramelizing, broth simmering—effort, patience, home. Nick’s chest tightened at the unfairness of it.
A neat row of umbrellas and a spare scarf sat by the entryway. A battered stetson hung on a wall hook like it had a place it belonged. A baseball cap sat on the back of a chair, tossed there with the casual confidence of someone who didn’t expect the world to take it away.
The refrigerator was a riot: magnets, photos, reminders, a crooked paper calendar with a verse reference written in neat ink—Psalm 34:18—not shouted—just there. Nick’s eyes slid away like he’d been caught staring.
Mary met them in the kitchen doorway.
She was smaller than Gary but carried herself like someone who could hold a whole room steady. Two small gold-pearl loops rested at her neck, catching the light when she moved.
“Nick,” she said, like the word was something she’d practiced in her head and decided it mattered.
His throat pulled tight again.
“Ma’am,” he said on reflex, because it was safer than being casual.
Mary’s eyes softened. Not pity. Not inspection. Recognition.
“I’m glad you came,” she said, then, like she’d remembered to keep things honest and clean: “You didn’t have to. But I’m grateful.”
He nodded once, because anything else might crack him.
Behind her, an older snake in the stetson—Barry—tilted his head in a nod that was all respect, no hovering.
“Evenin’,” Barry said.
Larry—a smaller, younger sibling in a baseball cap—peeked around Gary’s coils, eyes wide.
“Is that the fox?” Larry blurted.
Gary gasped like this was the best day of his life. “Yes! This is Nick.”
Larry’s eyes got wider. “You’re famous.”
Nick’s mouth twitched. “I’m… moderately inconvenient.”
Carrie—more violet than the others, no jewelry, eyes steady—nudged a napkin toward Nick with her tail-tip, no words required.
It was such a small gesture that heat climbed up the back of his neck.
Mary’s gaze flicked to the bouquet and the rolls in Nick’s bag.
Nick’s shoulders locked.
Mary didn’t tease.
She asked, gentle: “May I take those?”
Nick blinked. “Yeah. Sure.”
Mary hooked the bag’s handles with a careful loop of her coil and carried it like it mattered.
Nick followed Gary toward the table with the uneasy feeling that he’d stepped into a place where people noticed.
The table was set.
Plates. Silverware. A pot of something steaming in the center.
And a place card.
Not fancy. Just a torn piece of brown paper folded into a tent, written in block letters.
NICK
Nick stopped. His body went cold, as if someone had dumped a bucket of water down the back of his shirt.
A seat saved. A name written. Like they’d expected him—like this wasn’t charity, it was belonging.
His mouth opened on a joke.
It came out wrong.
“Wow,” Nick said, and his voice cracked on the edge. “You guys do this for all your… criminals?”
Gary blinked, confused, and Mary’s expression didn’t change.
“I do it for guests,” Mary said. “We hoped you’d come.”
The words landed with no fanfare.
Nick’s eyes burned.
He looked down fast, pretending he was adjusting his sleeves.
Gary leaned in, whispering like a co-conspirator. “Is it alright if I sit near you?”
Nick swallowed. “Yeah. Sure.”
Gary coiled into a spot beside the chair, an anchor that didn’t trap.
Mary set a bowl of something on the table, then paused.
She didn’t demand attention.
She asked.
“We pray before we eat,” she said. “In Jesus’ name. You don’t have to join. You can just listen.”
Nick’s chest tightened; he was ten again, sitting at a small kitchen table while his mother bowed her head and thanked the Lord for the food and for keeping them safe.
Safe.
Heat flared under his fur.
He stared at the place card, waiting for instructions that never came.
Mary bowed her head.
The room quieted without forcing it.
“Lord,” Mary said, voice low, reverent. “Thank You for daily bread. Thank You for bringing us home. Thank You for the ones who made this meal and the ones who will share it.”
Nick’s throat worked.
Mary continued, soft and steady. “We ask You, in Jesus’ name, to give healing and peace—to protect our city, to hold close those who feel alone.” Her voice didn’t spike, didn’t sharpen into a point. It included.
“Amen,” Mary finished.
“Amen,” the family echoed.
Nick didn’t say anything.
He didn’t have to.
His paws curled tight in his lap until his claws pressed his pads.
Gary’s tail-tip hovered near Nick’s wrist—asking without words.
Nick gave a tiny nod.
Gary’s tail-tip rested against his sleeve for one quiet second, warm as a promise, then lifted away.
Nick swallowed around something sharp.
Mary and Gary began serving, and the table moved like it knew what it was doing—bowls nudged and guided with tail-tips, bread passed along, someone asking if Nick wanted more before anyone asked why his paws were shaking. No spotlight, no probing questions, no attempt to pry a story out of him; just food passed around a table, normal life offered to someone who didn’t trust it yet.
The conversation stayed safe—almost aggressively ordinary, the kind of ordinary that still made Nick suspicious. Gary talked about emojis and “tiny magic rectangles” with the earnestness of someone discovering joy on purpose, then proved it by rotating his phone so Nick could see the keyboard.
“Look,” Gary said, proud. “There is an emoji for… everything.”
Nick squinted. “Is there one for existential dread and poor decision-making?”
Gary’s tongue flicked, thoughtful. “I think that is this one.” He tapped a little melting face.
Nick made a noise that might’ve been a laugh. Gary looked thrilled, like he’d just unlocked an achievement.
Across the table, Larry argued with Barry about whether a baseball cap looked better forward or sideways.
“Sideways makes you look like you’re about to sell me a used scooter,” Barry said, deadpan.
“It’s called style,” Larry declared.
“It’s called neck pain,” Barry replied.
Carrie, calm as a wall, asked Nick what he liked to eat.
Nick blinked at the question, thrown. “Uh,” he said, buying time. “Food?”
Carrie’s mouth curved a fraction. “Okay,” she said, unsurprised.
Mary set a bowl in front of him and waited without hovering.
He took one careful taste.
His ears betrayed him first—flicking up before his face remembered how to stay guarded.
“This is…” he started, then glanced up like he’d caught himself being sincere in public. “This is really good.”
Gary’s eyes went huge.
Mary’s expression softened into something quietly pleased. “Thank you,” she said, like she knew that cost him.
Barry leaned back, hat brim tipping. “Don’t tell the city,” he said. “We’ve got a reputation to rebuild.”
Nick’s mouth twitched. “Right. Wouldn’t want word getting out that reptiles can cook.”
Larry’s cap bobbed as he leaned in. “Do foxes shed their tails when they’re stressed?”
He froze.
Gary made a distressed noise.
Mary’s eyes sharpened. “Larry—”
Nick exhaled through his nose. “Only on Tuesdays,” he said. “It’s very inconvenient.”
Larry’s eyes got even wider. “Whoa.”
Carrie didn’t blink. “He is lying,” she said, flat.
Nick pointed at her with his spoon. “I like her.”
Carrie’s tail-tip flicked once, which might’ve been approval.
Mary asked Nick about the precinct, and when he deflected with something dry she smiled without pushing for what was underneath. Nick gave them a small, safe story—Clawhauser trying to “boost morale” by bringing in donuts shaped like tiny badges, and Chief Bogo pretending he didn’t eat two.
Barry’s eyes crinkled. “He ate two,” he said, as if it were a sacred truth.
“He ate two,” Nick confirmed.
Gary looked delighted. “This is information,” he said solemnly.
At one point, Barry said, simple and earnest, “We’re grateful for what you and Officer Hopps did,” and Nick tried to wave it off with “Just doing my job,” only to get a quiet “Still,” in return that held more weight than a speech.
Nick studied his bowl as if soup could be a distraction, steam curling up in soft ropes. He felt absurdly close to crying over soup.
The room kept moving around him anyway—laughter, small talk, the soft clink of utensils—until Larry asked, bright and careless, “Do you have a mom?” like it was a normal question and not a landmine.
Gary made a sound like a warning. Mary’s eyes flicked, sharp and kind at once. “Honey—”
Nick’s mouth moved before his brain could stop it. “Yeah,” he said too fast. “I… yeah. I text her.”
The moment didn’t turn into a trap. No one pounced. Mary nodded, slow, and said, “Okay,” while Carrie nudged the bread basket across like she was laying down something harmless. Warmth crawled up his neck anyway, pressure rising behind his ribs until he stood too abruptly.
“Bathroom,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.
Gary’s head lifted. “Do you want—”
“I’m fine,” Nick lied with professional ease, and escaped toward the kitchen instead.
He gripped the counter, warm tile under his pads and cold in his paws. He stared at the refrigerator covered in photos and reminders until the shapes blurred, until the laughter behind him and the clink of forks sounded like proof that other people knew how to live without bracing for impact. Nick’s breath hitched; he swallowed it down.
Leaving would have been the easiest thing. Second easiest: go back out there with a joke and a shrug and pretend the ground hadn’t shifted under him. Neither felt possible.
A pan scraped softly behind him, and Mary came into the kitchen without fanfare—no announcement, no worried look meant to corner him. She stood at the stove and stirred something that didn’t need stirring, giving herself a task so her presence wouldn’t feel like an interrogation. After a beat she said, gentle as an offered chair, “May I stay here?”
His throat tightened; he didn’t trust himself to look at her. “Yeah,” he managed, voice rough.
Mary stirred once, then turned the burner down like she’d remembered to respect the quiet. She waited until the air settled, until Nick’s breathing stopped scraping.
Then she said, softly, “You look like you’re waiting to be told you did something wrong.”
His mouth opened on a laugh and produced a broken breath instead. He blinked hard. “That’s… ridiculous.”
Mary’s tone didn’t argue. “Mm.”
Nick swallowed.
He tried again, reaching for sarcasm like a life raft. “Your family’s very… hospitable. Big on the place cards.”
Mary’s eyes eased. “We like names,” she said. “Names matter.”
Something prickled at the base of his ears.
A laugh bubbled up, sharp and helpless. “Yeah. Well. My name’s mostly been useful for paperwork.”
Mary didn’t flinch.
She let the spoon rest.
“Nick,” she said, and the way she said it made it feel like more than paperwork.
Nick’s throat tightened so hard it hurt.
He stared at the counter.
“I don’t… go home,” he said finally, so quiet it barely qualified as speech.
Mary didn’t react like it was shocking.
She only breathed in slow, as if she was making room for the truth.
“I left,” Nick continued, words scraping on the way out. “A long time ago. I—”
His jaw clenched.
He looked toward the living room doorway, where he could still hear laughter, and the sound made his chest ache.
“I send money,” he admitted. “Sometimes. Like that makes me… better.”
Mary’s eyes stayed steady.
Nick’s voice went hoarse. “I text her once a year. Happy birthday. Merry Christmas. Whatever. I keep it… neat. Because if I make it messy, then—”
He swallowed.
“Then I have to explain why I left,” he whispered.
Mary’s tail-tip hovered—an offer, not a grab.
“May I?” she asked.
Nick’s throat worked.
He nodded once.
Mary’s tail-tip hovered a breath, then a warm loop of her coil settled lightly across his shoulder—warm and solid without trapping him.
Nick’s breath hitched.
His eyes stung.
He tried to laugh it off and failed.
“I don’t even know if she…” His voice broke. “If she wants—”
The coil didn’t tighten.
It just stayed.
“I’ve prayed for my own people when I couldn’t reach them,” Mary said quietly. “When I didn’t know how to fix what was broken.”
Nick fixed his gaze on the counter like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
Mary continued, soft but sure. “The Lord doesn’t kick doors in, sweetheart. He waits. He’s patient.”
Nick flinched at the Lord the way he flinched at a bruise being touched.
Mary noticed.
She didn’t correct him.
She didn’t push.
She only added, gentler, “And the Lord is close to the brokenhearted.”
Nick’s jaw clenched.
“Yeah?” he rasped. “Where was He when—”
The words died in his throat.
Mary didn’t demand the rest.
She nodded, like she understood the question without needing the details.
“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I don’t pretend I know.”
Her coil stayed steady. “But I know this: you don’t have to earn a seat here.”
Nick’s breath hitched.
Tears spilled, sudden and humiliating.
He tried to wipe them fast with the back of his paw.
His paw shook.
Mary’s voice stayed calm. “It’s alright,” she said, careful—no slogans, no performance. “Would you like water?”
Nick nodded once, defeated.
Mary slid a glass within reach, then tipped the pitcher with a careful loop of her tail, filling it like a gift he didn’t have to repay.
Nick drank, eyes squeezed shut.
He hated the wetness on his face.
He hated that it felt like relief.
Mary kept that coil lightly there until his breathing slowed.
Then she eased it away as if she were giving him control back.
“Do you want to go back out there?” she asked.
Nick inhaled.
The laughter in the other room sounded less like a threat now.
“Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “I… yeah.”
Mary nodded. “Okay.”
They went back out together, quiet and unannounced—the kind of return that didn’t make you pay for it.
They didn’t stare when they came back in. Barry talked about the food like it was normal; Larry went right back to the cap debate; Carrie nudged the bread basket closer and angled the best piece toward him like it was nothing at all. Nick’s ears burned. He ate anyway.
The pressure in his ribs didn’t vanish, but it stopped climbing.
After a second bowl—after Nick caught himself reaching for the rolls without thinking—Larry’s attention skittered off the table, pinball-fast.
“We should play a game,” Larry announced, as if it were a fact of nature.
Barry’s hat brim dipped. “You mean one of those games where you try to get me to admit I’m wrong?”
“That’s called conversation,” Larry said.
Gary brightened. “We can do Two Truths and a Lie!”
Nick’s head lifted a fraction. “You have a game that is literally about lying.”
Gary considered that, tongue flicking. “Yes,” he said, completely sincere. “But it is a friendly lie. With consent.”
Carrie’s eyes stayed steady. “This will go poorly,” she said.
Mary’s expression warmed. “Only if we make it,” she replied, and tipped her head at Nick like she was offering him the edge of the circle. “You don’t have to play.”
Nick’s instincts lined up like a firing squad: Decline. Joke. Exit.
Don’t.
But the seat card was still in his peripheral vision. So was the way nobody had looked at him funny for needing a minute.
“Fine,” Nick said, making the word sound like he wasn’t choosing anything. “One round.”
Larry nearly vibrated off his chair. “Me first!”
He rattled off his three with the breathless speed of someone terrified silence might catch him: he’d once swallowed a whole cherry pit; he could do a perfect backwards hat flip; he had been grounded for a week for trying to “race” the escalator.
Barry didn’t even pause. “The hat flip.”
Larry’s head dipped. “Dang it.”
Carrie’s tail-tip flicked once—approval or pity, impossible to tell.
Gary went next, earnest as a pledge. His truths were all sweetness: he really did keep every thank-you note he got (even the one Nick hadn’t technically written); he had named the heat lamp in the corner “Sunny”; he had, once, mistaken a Roomba for an animal and tried to rescue it.
Nick stared at him.
Gary stared back, guileless.
Barry’s eyes crinkled. “It’s the Roomba,” he said.
“It is not,” Gary said, affronted. “It was trapped.”
Mary laughed—quiet, genuine—and the sound startled Nick more than it should have.
Larry jabbed a tail-tip toward him, triumphant. “Fox’s turn.”
Nick’s mouth went dry.
He could feel the shape of the dangerous things—ten-year-old him, sixteen-year-old him, all the ways he’d learned to vanish.
So he chose safe truths. He chose a lie that tasted like a joke.
“Alright,” Nick said, and tipped the spoon like a microphone. “One: I can tell what kind of day Chief Bogo’s having by the speed of his sigh. Two: I once ate a donut I confiscated as evidence. Three: I hate being called famous.”
Larry squinted hard enough to hurt himself.
Barry didn’t miss a beat. “Two’s the lie. You’d never leave evidence.”
Nick’s smile came out on instinct—and then, against his better judgment, he let it stay. “Correct.”
Gary looked appalled. “You would eat evidence?”
“I would never,” Nick said, solemn. “I’m a professional.”
Carrie’s mouth curved a fraction. “He is lying again,” she said.
Nick pointed at her with his spoon. “Still like her.”
Larry laughed, loud and bright.
Nick’s laugh followed it—small, startled, real.
Gary’s eyes went huge, like he’d just witnessed a miracle.
Mary’s gaze softened into something proud without making it heavy.
When the laughter eased and plates went quiet for a breath, Gary lifted his phone with careful excitement.
“May I take a photo?” Gary asked, earnest. “A family photo. Only if you want.”
Nick’s instinct was to refuse.
Then he remembered the place card.
He remembered Mary’s coil on his shoulder.
He remembered that nobody had laughed at him here.
“Yeah,” Nick said, and his voice came out quieter than he meant. “Okay.”
Gary’s grin nearly split his face.
Mary leaned in on Nick’s other side, close enough that her pearl loops caught the light. Carrie coiled behind them, steady. Barry’s stetson tilted as he leaned into frame like he was embarrassed to be sentimental.
“If this ends up on the internet,” Barry muttered, “I’m denyin’ it.”
Nick, without missing a beat, murmured, “If you tag me, I’m filing a report.”
Nick’s smile was stiff.
Gary snapped the photo.
“Another one?” Gary asked.
Nick opened his mouth to complain.
Then Larry made a ridiculous face.
A laugh escaped Nick before he could catch it.
Gary snapped the second photo.
Nick’s smile in it looked… less fake.
Gary gasped softly, like he’d captured a rare animal—then caught himself, tongue flicking in apology before he could actually say anything.
Nick shot him a look. “Don’t you start.”
Gary’s eyes shone. “I will not,” he promised, and looked like he would anyway.
Larry’s cap bobbed as he craned closer, eyes bright with the kind of focus that made Nick nervous. “Okay,” Larry said, serious. “One more. But like—normal.”
Nick stared. “Define normal.”
“Not like you’re about to read us our rights,” Larry clarified.
“That’s just my face,” Nick said.
Carrie’s gaze slid over him, calm as ever. “It is not,” she said.
Barry’s voice rumbled from behind his brim. “Leave the fox alone, boy.”
“I am helping,” Larry insisted, undeterred. “Okay. On three, everyone think about… soup.”
Gary made a pleased sound. “Soup is good.”
Nick huffed, but it wasn’t all armor this time. “Fine. One more. If this gets posted anywhere, I’m blaming Barry.”
Gary lifted the phone again, beaming like this was a sacred duty. “One,” he said.
Larry puffed up and tried to make his cap look “normal,” which somehow made it worse.
“Two.”
Nick let his eyes close for half a beat—just long enough to feel the warmth of the room like a handhold—then looked up.
“Three!”
Gary snapped the photo.
Nick’s smile in that one wasn’t big. It didn’t have to be. It was there anyway—quiet, real, and gone quick enough that only the camera had proof.
After dinner, Mary packed leftovers without asking if Nick wanted them, as if it were never optional.
She nudged a container toward him. This was what families did.
Nick’s paws closed around it.
The plastic was warm.
Evidence.
Mary met his eyes. “Text me when you get home,” she said.
Not a command.
Care.
Nick nodded once. “Okay.”
Gary walked him to the door.
“Thank you for coming,” Gary said, solemn again.
Nick huffed, aiming for normal. “Don’t get sentimental on me, Snake.”
Gary’s tongue flicked. “I can be sentimental,” he said. “I am learning.”
A corner of Nick’s mouth tugged.
In the hall, Mary called softly, “Nick.”
Nick paused.
Mary’s voice stayed warm and respectful. “If you ever want to talk about home,” she said, “you can. If you don’t, you’re still welcome.”
Nick’s throat tightened.
He nodded once and left before he could say something stupid.
Outside, the evening air felt colder. Nick walked with the leftovers held against his ribs like a fragile thing, got two blocks before he remembered Judy, and by then his phone buzzed like it had been waiting.
Judy: How was it?
He stared at the screen, wrote Fine and deleted it, wrote Weird and deleted that too, wrote They made soup like that was the point and erased it. Finally he typed the truth in the smallest words he could manage.
Nick: They saved me a seat.
Three dots appeared.
Then:
Judy: I’m really proud of you.
Under another streetlight, his eyes went wet as he blinked too hard and tried to make a joke out of it. He managed something that sounded like one.
Nick: Don’t get used to it.
A pause, and then—because the night had already made him brave in small ways—he added:
Nick: Thank you.
He stood there with the leftovers warm against his ribs until the streetlight buzzed and the city kept moving, then he started home.