Juno kept darting between the playpen gate and the front door, his claws skittering against the floor. He whimpered like he was trying to speak, trying to ask why his brother hadn’t come back yet. Every time a car passed outside, his ears perked. Every time it didn’t stop, he let out a low, devastated cry. He was unraveling—confused, anxious as to where Juniper had gone.
The sky outside had darkened. The shelter lights flickered on. Gabby checked her phone again—9:03 p.m. Her throat felt tight. No call. No message. No sign of Josh. Juno had stopped whining. He just lay there, wide-eyed, unmoving. Still waiting. Gabby crouched down and whispered, “I don’t think he’s coming.”