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We lapse into what feels like the first uncomfortable silence I’ve experienced with Oliver since his early days working on the boat. Maybe I’m supposed to press him on it. Ask him more questions to show I’m willing to listen if he wants to open up. But I can’t, and it’s not even the stutter that is fully to blame.It’s selfishness.

I’d like to stay in the bubble we created during the blizzard. Keep the world small enough to fit into my house, and Oliver never more than a room apart from me. If I weren’t certain of being turned away, I’d tell him that I think I might be interested in him. I’d tell him I enjoy spending time together, that I like the color of his eyes and the dimples on his cheeks. I’d tell him my house is far too silent after two days of music, and I wish my songbird would return. But I’ve been kicked while down too many times in the past to curl up on the ground and ask for it. Instead, I stay silent.

“Hey, Nils, it’s Rudy. Listen, I hope this isn’t out of line, but I know you keep chickens up there, and I’ve got a box of fresh chicks that were dropped off at the door. I checked them over, and they’re fine, but you know how it is. Hard to get people interested unless we’re close to Easter, and then they find their way to me anyway once people realize they don’t stay small forever. Well, anyhow, I just thought I’d see if you had room for a few more. Let me know. Clinic is open until seven tonight—I’ll leave your name at the desk if you want to stop by. Okay, yeah, I’ll be seeing you. Bye now.”

I listen to the message twice through. It’s been a long time since I’ve had to visit the veterinary clinic, which means it’s been a long time since I’ve spoken to Rudy. I keep to myself and generally avoid all places in town that might be considered popular. As such, I’m probably the only resident of Siren’s Pointwho doesn’t know what’s going on with everyone else. I might also be the only resident who doesn’t care what’s going on with everyone else.

Rudy isn’t bad, as far as locals go, though. He’s the only vet in town, and he was professional and kind when I had to bring one of the chickens in for a broken leg. I could easily take the chicks. Especially right now, with it being the low season, since I’d be home and able to take care of them. Helping him out might also earn me a bit of goodwill with Rudy, which is a currency I rarely have access to. Tapping my fingers on the counter, I glance at the time. Early evening yet, and he’d said they’d be open until seven.

Before I’ve even consciously made the decision to do so, I leave the house and walk to my storage shed. The chicks will have to remain separated from my flock for a bit before I slowly begin integrating them. I’ve got heat lamps and bedding stored—the little ones can live in the bathtub of my spare room for now.

When I get to town an hour later, I’m pushing it on time. I park in front of the Caring Claws Animal Clinic, the red lobster curled around the words looking a little worse for wear since the last time I saw it. Winter has been hard on everyone. When I walk inside, a woman looks up at the sound of the bell, frowning. I almost frown back, no more excited to be seeing Shelby Dawson tonight than she is to see me. I nod a greeting as I approach, watching as she fixes her customer service smile into place.

“Evening! Name?” She pins her eyes to the computer screen as though ready to search for my appointment. I sigh. She knowsmy name.

“Ni-nils L-l-l-l-l?—”

“Lee?” Shelby fills in. Clenching my jaw hard enough for my ears to ache, I nod again. If she wants to pretend she doesn’t know my name, she should give me time to finish saying it. I don’t know why people insist on asking me to talk, only to turn around and be frustrated when I try. My shoulders tighten, muscles locking into place. I already regret coming.

She types on her keyboard for a few seconds. I can’t imagine what she’s looking for. I’m here for a box of chickens, not a prostate exam. Shoving my hands into the pockets of my jacket, I wait. This is why I hate coming to town. The odds of running into someone I dislike—someone who dislikes me—is far greater than the odds of seeing someone who treats me like everyone else.

“Hm, well, shoot. I don’t see you here. Who did you bring for a visit?” Shelby peeks her head over the counter, looking for a pet crate that isn’t there. Shame, so thick I feel like I could choke on it, coats my throat like tar. I swallow, wishing I could turn around and just abandon this plan altogether.

“Ru-rudy called. Ch-ch-ch-chi-k-kens?”

“Oh, are you here for the chickens?” she asks. I nod, trying to resist the urge to wipe at my forehead. I’m starting to sweat. “Well, why didn’t you say so? I’ll page him and let him know you’re here.”

I move off to the side, pretending to find the shelf of cat treats interesting. Shelby Dawson was as mean as an adder growing up, and age has only seemed to sour her further. I’dforgotten she works here, or I might not have come at all. As my mom would say, some people feel the need to put salt in your sugar to make theirs sweeter. Never has that saying ever applied so well to someone as it does to Shelby Dawson.

“Not many fishermen left traps out this winter,” she says.

I close my eyes and wish for reprieve. I can’t do small talk. When I say nothing—which was likely what she expected anyway—she continues.

“Haven’t seen Shiloh around much. Suppose he’s busy with his new man.” I look over at the sound of her tinkling laugh, and she winks at me, apparently thinking I’m the type of person to gossip about sex lives in the lobby of the vet clinic. “Awful nice of him to keep you on, though. Especially through the winter.”

I nod, unsurprised. This has been the constant refrain since I started work hauling traps with Shiloh on theDrifter—“wow, how kind of him to hire you,” “I suppose the job isn’t all that hard, you’ll probably do fine,” “how good of Shiloh to take a chance on you, he’s such a sweet boy.” On and on and on. If I had a dime for every time someone mentioned Shiloh performing charitable work by hiring an idiot like me, I’d be rich enough to buy the respect I’ll never be able to earn on my own.

A door behind the reception desk opens, and Rudy steps out. I nod in greeting, feeling like his appearance came not a moment too soon. I’m ready to get the chicks and go home. I’m not coming back to town until the day Shiloh puts the boat back in the water.

“Hey, Nils, thanks for coming. You can come on back.” Gesturing me toward him, he leads me to an exam room andpoints to the cardboard box. “They’re just in there. Only a couple days old.”

Peeking in, I look at the tiny balls of fluff. Two yellow and one black-and-white. They cheep up at me, voices strong for being so new to the world. Reaching a hand in, I touch one of them gently, thinking about Oliver.

“Ea-ea-early,” I comment, voice low. I feel as though I’ve exhausted my vocal cords and need to be silent for two days to recoup. I didn’t practice any of the sentences I should have before coming, and it’s showing.

“Little bit,” Rudy agrees, running a hand over the silver stubble on his jaw. “February is usually when we start seeing hatchlings, though, even if we’d prefer for them to wait until closer to the spring.”

Nodding, I remove my hand from the box, pulling the whole thing toward me on the stainless steel table. Rudy smiles, and I try my best to return it in a genuine way. Rudy, twenty years my senior, isn’t so bad. He’d probably be the kind of guy I’d grab dinner and catch up with if I were the kind of person who did that with anyone.

“Thanks again for doing this for me. Here’s my card—personal cell is on the back. Reach out if you need anything. Also, if you find an additional three is too many, let me know, and I can help with rehoming.”

I nod, carefully lifting the box and trying not to jostle the chicks. I won’t rehome them. And I certainly won’t leave them on the doorstep of the vet clinic in the middle of winter. Sometimes—most of the time, truthfully—I wonder aboutthe morals of people in this world. Someone who can abandon helpless babies, be they chickens or puppies or humans, isn’t the kind of person I want near me.

Shelby calls out a halfhearted goodbye, which I ignore as I pass by on my way to the exit. The chicks rustle around on ungainly legs, loudly proclaiming their dislike of this carnival ride. Once the box is seat-belted in the front seat of my truck, I start the heat and point the vents toward them. Checking my phone, I see two missed calls and a message from an unknown number. Thinking it’s probably a scammer despite the Siren’s Point area code, I listen to the voicemail and groan.

“Hey, man, this is Ryan. I bartend over at the Tress. Listen, buddy, I hate to do this, but I know you live next to Oliver, and—” My fingers tighten on the cell at the mention of Oliver. There’s a fuzzy scuffing noise as though Ryan pressed the receiver to his chest. After a second, he comes back with a sigh, although it’s obvious he’s no longer addressing me but a patron. “Be quiet, I’ll be over there in a second. Drink your water. Sorry. This job is like herding fucking cats. Anyway, can you call me back or stop by and give Oli a lift home? He’s a couple sheets to the wind, and I’ve got his keys. He said I could call you since apparently you’re…no, Oli, I’m not saying that…since you’re friends.”

He cuts off again, the noise once more becoming staticky as he hides the receiver from whatever Oliver is trying to say. I don’t bother listening to the rest of the message but check the time it was left and groan. He called right when I’d gone inside the clinic, which was thirty minutes ago. I call him, closing my eyes and leaning my head back. If this day wanted to endalready, I’d be happy.