Page 87 of No Judgements

Drew swore.

But that’s where we found them—after climbing over a back fence. Two very sad-looking pit bull mixes. It was clear by the water line along the house that the floodwaters had reached the porch, and that the dogs had been forced during the storm to swim for a while.

The waters had then receded, and the dogs were fine now.

But they’d had no food for some time, since whatever Max had left out for them had floated away in the flood.

The dogs were overcome at the sight of us, barking and crying with joy.

“Next time I see him, I’m going to kill Max,” Drew said, as he saw the bedraggled mutts, their backsides wiggling with pathetic excitement.

I pressed my lips together to keep myself from saying anything I’d regret.

“At least he was honest,” I said, instead, tipping over the bag of dry cat food we’d brought with us into the dogs’ bowls. It was the only food we had left and was courtesy of Mrs. Hartwell. She saved it for the feral cats from the church down the street, both of whom were fine and accounted for.

The dogs didn’t care what kind of food it was. They devoured it eagerly, then looked up, anxious for more.

“At least he told Duane the truth about abandoning the dogs, and Duane called us.”

“I don’t care if Max told him the truth,” Drew said, untying the dogs’ leashes from the back porch railing. “I’m still killing him. And we’re taking them. They’re my dogs now.”

“No, they’re not.” Drew said this at practically every home we visited. “You can take them for a walk, or even take them back to your aunt’s, if you want, until their owner gets back into town. But you can’t keep every pet we find.”

“I’m keeping them until Duane gets back. I’m not surrendering them to anyone but Duane. And if I see that idiot Max, I’m killing him!”

“At least Max told his brother the truth, so he could call us,” I repeated.

I didn’t want to think about how many animal owners hadn’t seen or heard about my mom’s online post, and so hadn’t contacted us yet.

It was as I was telling myself firmly not to think about this that I heard a rumble. It seemed to be coming from the sky. I looked up just in time to see it... a large, dark gray jet plane. It was flying awfully low. It was the first man-made object I’d seen overhead since the hurricane, and it was flying awfully low.

“Military cargo jet,” Drew said, answering my unuttered question. “They must have gotten the runway cleared.”

“FEMA?” I asked hopefully. If it was FEMA, there was a chance it might be carrying pet food.

“Doubt it. They usually send military personnel first. But it’s good news, anyway.”

It wasn’t to me. It meant that my mother might make good on her threat about arriving.

“How many is this, anyway?” Drew asked, tapping the list I’d pulled from my backpack.

“Oh.” I checked. “Twenty. We have seven more to go. Then we should probably head back to your aunt’s and see if there’ve been any more faxes. I’m sure there have.”

He looked dismayed. “More? There can’t possibly be more.”

I smiled at him. “Why? Are you ready to go back to restoring historic windows?”

He scowled at me, picking up the leashes of the now considerably happier dogs. “Not on your life. I love our new business... even if we’re not getting paid. I’d just like it better if it involved less starving animals, and more time with you, preferably in my bed.”

I smiled. “I think that could be arranged—after we’ve finished checking the rest of these houses.”

The rest of the pets on our list were fine, only in need of a little TLC—like one tuxedo cat who wanted only to sit on our laps and be petted (it turned out a neighbor had been looking in on her, but had been unable to communicate with the owner to tell her so). In the next house, a poodle was similarly being cared for by neighbors, and wanted only to play fetch with us, because she was so bored. Each had been left with enough food to get them by for at least another day... but beyond that, we were in trouble.

“I really think,” I was saying to Drew as we climbed the steps to the last house on our list, his friend’s pitties in tow—he’d insisted on taking them with us—“that we should break into Frank’s and take what we need. I knowhe wouldn’t mind. He’s a pet lover himself. I’ve heard he has a boxer.”

I’d had to raise my voice, because as I was speaking, another plane flew overhead. There’d been a steady stream of cargo jets, floatplanes, and helicopters flying by, so many that it was nearly impossible to hear oneself think. It felt like Casablanca, as portrayed in the classic old movie of the same title, only with all the flights arriving, not departing, and all the palm trees missing their fronds.

The home we were visiting was a stately older Victorian house much like Drew’s aunt and uncle’s. Painted a lovely shade of blue with cream trim, it didn’t appear to have suffered much hurricane damage at all. Its storm shutters were already thrown back, which was odd for a home whose owners had apparently evacuated, and there was a newish set of white wicker chairs sitting on the porch.