Book 02 - Chapter Two:

When they returned downstairs an hour later, Olivia’s hair was a mess, her ears relaxed, and her tail swayed with a looser, happier rhythm. Lenny carried a bottle of water in one hand and leaned into Olivia’s side with practiced ease.

They paused in the breakroom doorway.

Charles sat at the table, paper folded neatly in front of him, tea steaming at his elbow. He looked up as they entered, expression mild and entirely unsurprised.

“Well,” he said pleasantly. “That appears to have helped.”

Lenny snorted, dropping into a chair. “She tackles like a professional athlete.”

Olivia flushed—but she smiled, reaching for a glass. “I feel… better,” she admitted. “Quieter.”

Charles nodded. “Excellent.”

He took a sip of tea, eyes twinkling faintly.

“And,” he added, “if it turns out that wasn’t the cause after all…”

Olivia sighed, ears flicking.

“…Yeah,” she said. “I know.”

They settled in around the breakroom table—hydration acquired, a small bowl of something crunchy passed between them. Olivia leaned back in her chair, calmer now, but still watching Lenny with a curious frown.

“…You figured something out, didn’t you,” Olivia said.

Lenny took a sip of water, unbothered. “Mm-hmm.”

Olivia blinked. “I thought I was keeping you… distracted.”

Lenny laughed softly. “Oh, you were. Exceptionally so.” She glanced at Charles, then back at Olivia. “But a good doctor looks at all the available data. Even when the patient is very persuasive.”

Olivia groaned, tail giving a lazy flick. “Rude.”

“Accurate,” Lenny corrected gently.

She leaned forward now, elbows on the table, expression thoughtful rather than teasing. “What you’re describing isn’t stress. Or burnout. Or dissatisfaction. It’s restlessness.”

Olivia frowned. “I have enrichment breaks.”

“Yes,” Lenny agreed immediately. “Plenty of them. Mental stimulation, physical exercise, social bonding, intimacy—all excellent. But not… complete.”

Charles folded his paper neatly and set it aside, clearly interested.

Lenny gestured vaguely at Olivia. “You’re a Shepherd-kin now. That changes the equation. You’re not just a person with extra instincts—you’re a person with working instincts.”

Olivia’s ears twitched.

“You’re alert all day,” Lenny continued. “You watch the doors. You manage people. You problem-solve constantly. You’re on. Even when you relax, your brain’s still cataloging inputs.”

“…That’s not wrong,” Olivia admitted slowly.

“And sometimes,” Lenny said, smiling a little, “that kind of mind doesn’t need more thinking. It needs the opposite.”

She tilted her head, choosing her words carefully.

“You need enrichment that lets you stop being responsible for a while. Something instinctive. Physical. Pack-oriented.” She shrugged. “Something suitable for a dog. Or a…”

She glanced at Olivia’s ears.

“…wolf.”

Silence settled—not uncomfortable. More like something clicking into place.

“Oh,” Olivia said softly.

Charles nodded, entirely unsurprised. “Yes. That aligns rather neatly with what I was thinking.”

Olivia looked between them. “Wait—you already knew this?”

“I suspected,” Charles said mildly. “Lenny’s confirmation is helpful.”

Lenny smirked. “Always happy to collaborate.”

Olivia rubbed the back of her neck, tail starting up again, slower but more deliberate. “So what—what does that even look like? I can’t exactly chew on a desk leg.”

“Please don’t,” Charles said promptly.

He stood, smoothing his coat, eyes bright with that familiar glint—the one that meant he already had a solution.

“I know someone who can help,” he said simply, as he started to walk out of the breakroom.

Olivia narrowed her eyes. “That sentence never means something normal.”

Charles smiled. “Normal is overrated!” he called back as he disappeared down the hall.

They finished their snacks slowly, the last of the water bottles drained and set aside. Olivia felt steadier now—not fixed, not yet—but grounded, the way one does after finally stretching a muscle that had been tight too long.

Lenny stood first.

She didn’t announce it—just rose, reached down, and hooked two fingers around Olivia’s arm with practiced familiarity.

“C’mon,” she said. “Back to your apartment.”

Olivia looked up, hopeful already. “Oh?”

“Another round,” Lenny added briskly, “this time in the bed, before I have to go interrogate a colleague about Mothman this evening.”

Olivia’s ears drooped immediately. “I was hoping you’d stay the night.”

Lenny softened, squeezing her arm as she pulled her to her feet. “I would,” she said honestly. “But my patients need me. Just as much as you do.”

They headed for the stairs together, arm in arm, steps unhurried.

“And,” Lenny continued, glancing sideways at her with a small smile, “I trust Charles. If he says he knows someone, then he does. Whoever it is, they’ll put you to rights.”

Olivia huffed. “You’re really okay just… handing me off like that?”

“I’m okay with you being taken care of,” Lenny corrected.

They reached the apartment door. Lenny leaned in, voice dropping conspiratorially as she nudged it open.

“Besides,” she added, grin widening, “you can tell me all about it afterward. And then you can act out all the… juicy… parts.”

Olivia burst out laughing, tail flicking hard enough to thump against the wall. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love me,” Lenny said lightly.

The door closed behind them, laughter muffled, the Station humming on—patient, knowing, and already preparing for what came next.

Thursday morning arrived gently.

Olivia woke with the strange, lingering certainty that she had been moving for hours.

Not tossing. Not pacing.

Traveling.

She lay still for a moment, ears flicking as she tried to hold onto the shape of it before it slipped away. The dreams had been forests again—dense, old-growth woods threaded with mist and birdsong. Sometimes she moved upright, pushing aside branches with her hands. Other times she was lower to the ground, muscles working differently, breath closer to the earth, senses widened and sharp.

Always searching.

For what, she couldn’t say.

By the time she padded downstairs, she felt better than she had the day before—looser, clearer.

Breakfast was already laid out in the breakroom: toast, eggs, fruit, tea steaming patiently. Charles sat with his paper folded beside his plate, Miss LaDonna buttering toast with unhurried precision.

“Morning,” Olivia said, sliding into her chair.

Miss LaDonna glanced up, smiling immediately. “Good morning, dear. You look… rested.”

“Better,” Olivia agreed. “Not fixed. But better.”

Charles nodded. “That’s progress.”

She poured herself tea, then hesitated. “I’ve been dreaming again.”

Both of them stilled—not dramatically, just attentively.

“Forests,” Olivia continued, staring into her cup. “Lots of them. I’m moving through them. Sometimes walking. Sometimes…” She shrugged one shoulder. “…not.”

“On all fours,” Miss LaDonna said gently.

Olivia blinked. “…Yes.”

Charles leaned back slightly, folding his hands. “Searching?”

She looked up sharply. “Yes. How did you—”

“It’s a common thread,” he said mildly.

Olivia frowned, chewing on her toast. “I don’t know what I’m looking for. Just that I am. And it feels important. Like if I stop moving, I’ll miss it.”

Miss LaDonna reached over and squeezed her hand briefly. “Dreams don’t always tell us what we want,” she said. “Sometimes they tell us what we need to do.”

“Move,” Olivia said quietly.

“Listen,” Charles added.

She sighed. “I keep thinking I’ll wake up knowing more. But I don’t. Just… this.” She tapped her chest. “Pulling.”

Charles exchanged a glance with Miss LaDonna, one that carried far more history than words.

“That,” he said at last, “sounds like a calling waking up before the map does.”

Olivia made a face. “That’s not comforting.”

“It isn’t meant to be,” Miss LaDonna said kindly. “But it is honest.”

They finished breakfast without rushing. Outside, the morning light filtered through the lobby windows, dust motes drifting lazily. The Station hummed—steady, unconcerned.

As Olivia stood to head for the desk, Charles added casually, “Try to keep Saturday morning free.”

She paused. “Why?”

He smiled, entirely too serene. “I think it’s time you met someone who doesn’t dream about forests.”

Her ears tilted. “…Oh.”

“He lives in them,” Charles said.

The hum deepened, just slightly.

Olivia stopped halfway to the door.

She turned slowly, tail still, ears forward in that very specific way that meant she wasn’t asking casually anymore.

“Okay,” she said. “No. I have questions.”

Charles glanced up from his tea, expression serenely innocent. “A shocking development.”

“What kind of person is this?” Olivia pressed. “Because ‘lives in the forest’ is doing a lot of heavy lifting right now.”

Miss LaDonna smiled into her cup.

Olivia ticked options off on her fingers. “Are we talking grizzled mountaineer? Like, beard, flannel, knows seventeen ways to skin a deer and disapproves of shoes?”

Charles tilted his head. “That’s one interpretation.”

“Or,” Olivia continued, “modern survivalist. Off-grid by choice. Solar panels. Talks about grit and discipline and how society is fragile. Possibly owns a YouTube channel.”

Charles’s smile widened just a touch.

Miss LaDonna set her cup down very deliberately. “Oh no. Not that.”

Olivia pointed at her. “That was a reaction.”

“I’m merely enjoying your imagination,” Miss LaDonna replied smoothly.

Olivia folded her arms. “I’m being serious. You’re sending me to meet someone who is apparently going to tell me what I’m doing wrong with my own instincts. I’d like to know whether I should mentally prepare for condescension, unsolicited protein advice, or ritualistic howling.”

Charles chuckled softly. “You should prepare for honesty.”

“That is not reassuring.”

“It isn’t meant to be.”

She took a breath, squared her shoulders, and tried again—more carefully this time. “Charles. Please. I’m not asking for everything. Just… what should I expect?”

He regarded her for a long moment, eyes kind, weighing something.

Then he smiled that particular smile. The one that meant the answer existed, was known, and was being deliberately withheld.

“You should expect,” he said lightly, “to be seen.”

Olivia scowled. “That’s not an answer.”

“It is,” Miss LaDonna said gently, “just not a descriptive one.”

Olivia dragged a hand down her face. “I want to know because I’m nervous,” she admitted. “Because I don’t know what I’m doing. And because—” she hesitated, then pushed through “—because I actually want this to help.”

That landed.

Miss LaDonna’s expression softened. Charles’s grin faded into something quieter, more approving.

But neither of them budged.

Miss LaDonna reached out and straightened the collar of Lenny’s stolen lab coat, a small, grounding gesture. “Some surprises lose their power when explained too soon,” she said. “This one… needs to meet you as you are now.”

“And,” Charles added mildly, “if I told you what he was, you’d try to prepare.”

Olivia blinked. “…Is that bad?”

“Yes,” they said together.

She stared at them.

“You’re doing this on purpose.”

Charles inclined his head. “With great care.”

Olivia huffed, tail giving an irritated flick. “I hate this.”

“No you don’t,” Miss LaDonna said fondly.

Olivia opened her mouth to argue—then stopped, sighed, and shook her head.

“…No,” she admitted. “I don’t.”

She turned back toward the desk, muttering, “If I get called ‘pup’ or something, I’m blaming both of you.”

Charles’s eyes twinkled.

Miss LaDonna picked up her tea again.

The morning behaved itself.

Calls were light and reasonable. No one asked about astrology. No one tried to reorganize the schedule around their personal calendar. Mail had already been sorted and delivered upstairs, and the inbox was mercifully thin.

Olivia was just finishing a reply when the lobby doors opened with familiar, theatrical confidence.

“Gooood morning,” came Dave’s operatic baritone, perfectly pitched to carry without echo.

Olivia looked up and smiled. “Morning, Dave.”

Dave the courier swept in, immaculate as ever, carrying a modest stack of packages—light enough that even he looked faintly disappointed. He placed them on the desk with exaggerated care.

“A gentle day,” he declared. “Hardly worth a warm-up.”

“I’ll survive,” Olivia said, already sorting.

Most of it was routine—media deliveries, paperwork—but one label made her pause.

The Ladies, Browning and Durst

c/o OtherWorlds Media

Flat WC1

“Oh,” Olivia said softly, smile tugging at her mouth.

Dave inclined his head with respect. “They asked that it be delivered properly. Indoors. With manners.”

“Of course they did,” Olivia said, setting it aside carefully. “Thank you.”

“And,” Dave added, producing one final item, “this one’s for you.”

He slid a long, cylindrical package onto the desk.

Olivia didn’t need to open it.

She felt the weight immediately—not heavy, but right. Familiar. Wrapped in brown paper and tied with velvet ribbon, just like the last one. Her ears flicked once, involuntarily.

“…Ah,” she said.

Dave smiled knowingly. “You recognize it.”

“Yes,” Olivia said quietly. “I do.”

“No singing?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Please don’t.”

“A shame,” Dave sighed theatrically. Then, brightening, “Well! Until next time.”

He swept out as he’d come, the lobby settling into quiet behind him.

Olivia logged the deliveries, then lifted the cylindrical package with care, cradling it against her chest for a moment before setting it gently aside. She didn’t open it—not yet—but she could already picture what was inside.

Another cow femur.

Scrimshawed with patient, intricate scenes.

Her, moving through forest and shadow.

A note in a familiar hand:

You’re looking much healthier, Lovely Guardian at the Gate!

She exhaled slowly, something warm and steady blooming in her chest.

“Soon,” she murmured, to the package, to herself.

Then she picked up the other parcel, turned toward the restroom door that was and was not a restroom, and knocked—politely.

She adjusted the sleeves of Lenny’s lab coat—still a little too short—and reminded herself, briefly, that she had not done anything wrong. Then she opened the door.

Agatha and Emily regarded her calmly.

For the barest fraction of a second—the sort of second only very old women can afford to own—they took her in: the fur, the ears, the tail, the height, the posture. Then Emily smiled warmly.

“Oh my,” she said. “What a lovely stylistic form you’ve settled into, dear.”

Agatha sniffed. “Still Bohemian, however.”

Olivia blinked, bracing—

—but Emily was already leaning forward, peering at Olivia’s feet. “Agatha, really. The dear girl can hardly be expected to find shoes that fit properly in this modern age.”

“One supposes so, quite,” Agatha conceded, sniffing again. “Though still rail thin.”

“I’m working on it,” Olivia said carefully.

Agatha eyed her. “One hopes so.”

Emily clapped her hands lightly. “Now then! You’ve brought something for us, haven’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Olivia said, passing the parcel forward.

Agatha accepted it with ceremony. Emily fetched a knife. The wrapping came away to reveal a neatly packed box from a small bakery in England, the paper still faintly scented with spice and butter.

“Oh,” Emily breathed. “How thoughtful.”

Agatha lifted the lid. Inside sat a dense, dark cake—heavy with fruit, soaked through with something rich and unapologetic, the sort of confection that knew it was doing its duty.

“Stodgy,” Agatha said approvingly.

“Gloriously so,” Emily agreed.

Slices were cut—proper slices—and before Olivia could protest, one was pressed into her hands.

“You simply must,” Emily insisted. “It would be rude not to.”

Agatha nodded. “Rudeness is unacceptable.”

Olivia took a bite.

The cake was dense enough to be architectural. Rich, sweet, heavy on the tongue. It sat immediately in her stomach like a warm declaration of intent.

“Oh,” she said, surprised. “That’s… really good.”

“Of course it is,” Agatha said. “It’s cake.”

Emily smiled at her fondly. “You look much better, you know.”

Olivia felt something settle—quiet, domestic, approving.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

They ate in companionable silence for a moment, porcelain cups clinking faintly, the impossible bathroom-turned-flat behaving itself admirably.

When Olivia finally stood to leave, Agatha regarded her over her teacup. “See that you keep eating properly, dear.”

Emily nodded. “You’re much too important to fade away.”

Olivia smiled, tail swaying gently. “Yes, ma’am.”

She closed the door behind her, the scent of cake lingering, and returned to the lobby feeling—unexpectedly—fortified.

The Station hummed, satisfied.

Some preparations, after all, began with cake.