She thumped her tail exactly twice, dignified but pleased, and disappeared through the swinging door. Tuesdays had become our ritual: vet, an hour to kill, pick up coffee somewhere that smells like cinnamon. I didn’t need anything. I told myself that as I pushed open the bell-laden door at Second Chances and was greeted by the high, citrus-clean scent of detergent and old wood. I always tell myself I don’t need anything, and still I leave with a casserole dish I’ll use once and a sweater that’s almost the color of pumpkin bread.
