"Some boyfriend," David muttered, then immediately glanced around, though he knew the shelter was usually empty this late. His father wouldn't be back for another hour—at his weekly coffee with Mrs. Whitmore, their biggest donor. The same diner, same booth, same desperate pitch to keep the shelter funded for another month.
The volunteer shift had ended thirty minutes ago, right on schedule. Only Abby remained, and she was in the back office doing inventory.
This was his window. The same window he'd had every Thursday for months. The time when he could drop his guard, when the shelter truly felt his own.
They knew that, of course. They had to know.
From her kennel, Shiloh watched him, quiet and alert.
"At least you're trustworthy," David said to Shiloh, pausing mid-scrub to meet her gaze.
"You don't pretend to be something you're not."
David scrubbed at the kennel floor with methodical fury, his grip tight and unyielding around the brush handle. Each stroke was precise, with vengeful intensity, as if he could erase the memory of recent events with enough bleach and pressure.
The dogs in the kennels craned their necks to follow David, ears perked and eyes wide with curiosity as he worked - as if trying to understand his alien, newfound potency. A few pawed at their latches, eager to be nearer to him, while others flopped back down with a huff, resigned to watching the spectacle unfold. Some whined softly, hoping to catch his attention, while others barked with short-lived bursts, only to settle just as quickly into a silent, expectant watchfulness.
Physical pain was preferable to remembering Johnny's eyes - remote and unfeeling in the locker room.
The brush bristled against concrete, each stroke a punishment. His knuckles had gone white around the handle, tendons standing out like accusations. Somewhere behind his ribs, that moment kept replaying—Johnny's eyes sliding past him in the cafeteria, cold as the water soaking through David's jeans.
The front bell chimed—sharp, wrong for this time of night. David's hand stilled on the brush.
A heartbeat later, the shelter erupted into a sudden, synchronized chorus, shattering David's methodical ritual.
David's body tensed before he turned. He knew that voice—the too-casual tone, the smug undercurrent beneath every word.
He looked up to see Micah entering the shelter with Doug following closely behind.
Micah's presence should've been a relief, once. Now it just twisted the knife.
Doug's posture was relaxed, but his eyes glinted like polished daggers. He didn't have to speak to dominate the space.
David met his gaze steadily, the broom still moving in his hands, though the rhythm has faltered.
"We're just checking in on a friend," Doug said, his tone smooth but insincere. "We hope everyone is doing well."
Doug strode forward, and paused at the supply shelf, picking up a bottle of disinfectant and reading the label with mock interest. "Industrial strength," he mused, setting it down wrong-side-out. "Too bad it can't clean the kind of sickness that really matters. The kind that spreads to anyone who gets too close."
David didn't turn around, instead focusing on the steady sweep of the broom. "Just helping out," he replied, his voice steady despite the turmoil within. "Someone has to."
Doug laughed—a dry, barking sound that scraped the air.
"Thursday nights are nice and quiet here, aren't they? Your dad's so reliable with those donor meetings. Every week, same time, begging for table scraps to keep this place running." He gestured around the shelter with mock disgust. "Leaves you all alone with your messes. Though I suppose you feel right at home here, surrounded by your own kind."
David's jaw tightened, but he refused to rise to the bait. He knew Doug's game, the way he used words like weapons.
"What are you really doing here?" David asked, voice carefully neutral.
"I told you. Just checking in on our wayward brother," Doug said, his tone dripping with condescension. Then his voice shifted, becoming harder. "Johnny's thriving. Focused. Driven. Doesn't look back anymore."
He paused, letting that sink in. "You should think about what's best for his future. Being associated with someone like you... it complicates things."
"He makes his own choices," David said, turning back to his sweeping.
"Not anymore," Doug said simply.
David could feel Micah's eyes on him, in that familiar, unsettling assessment.
Micah lingered in the lobby like someone brought along for insurance, not conviction.
Doug moved closer to the kennels, his presence setting off a chain reaction. One by one, the dogs began to pace, their anxiety rippling through the shelter like a wave.
He stopped at Shiloh's cage, meeting her protective glare with amusement.
"This your guard dog?" he asked, tapping his knuckles against the metal. Shiloh lunged at the bars, teeth bared, but the barrier between them made her fury impotent.
Doug didn't even flinch. "Lot of good she does you locked up like that," he said, his fingers leaving smudges on the clean metal.
"You collect damaged things," he said, tapping the bars again. "But Johnny belongs to us now. He's learned the difference between real brotherhood and... whatever you were offering."
Behind him, the usually calm beagle began howling—a mournful sound that seemed to give voice to David's own distress.
Micah finally spoke, "We've made our point, Doug. Let's move on now."
"I thought we were all friends," Micah called out from across the room.
"Were." David said, simply but sternly.
David stood slowly, wiping his hands on his jeans. "Whatever you're selling, we don't want it."
Doug leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, mock-conspiratorial tone. "You know, some people at GFC talk about this place like it's a den of... unholiness. We take care of people, not beasts." He wrinkled his nose, feigning disgust as he glanced at the dogs, their tails wagging tentatively. "But I told them, 'No, not our David. He's just... misguided. Confused."
Micah remained by the door, arms folded tightly across his chest. His typically confident dark hair, admired by the girls at school for its allure, now drooped over his eyes, as if to shield him from the situation.
His mischievous grin was notably absent.
"Misguided, huh?" David echoed, turning his attention back to Doug. He kept his voice steady. This was his territory, his refuge.
Doug chuckled, a low rumble that held no warmth. "Well, you know how it is. Some people just need a... firmer hand to guide them."
David held Doug's gaze, his own eyes reflecting a quiet strength never seen before.
Micah's discomfort intensified. He uncrossed his arms, only to cross them again, tighter, as if trying to hold himself together. His gaze flicked to David, then away, a silent apology in his eyes.
A new eruption of barking cut through the standoff.
David flinched. Even Doug stepped back instinctively, glancing toward the noise—just long enough to break his rhythm.
Abby stood in the doorway, fists clenched, eyes hard. "Oh, great. The cult sends its representatives."
Micah stiffened.
For a long moment the four teenagers stood in silence, sizing each other up.
Then David's eyes met Doug's with a steady resolve. "Johnny has always had his own path," David said, his voice soft but firm. "No one can change that, no matter how hard they try."
As he spoke, Doug meandered through the shelter like he owned it, straightening a crooked "Adopt Today!" poster with false care.
Doug's words clung to David's skin, thick as smoke, impossible to exhale. He gripped the broom handle even tighter.
"I told you. Johnny's doing just fine without you," Doug continued, his voice dripping with false sweetness. "In fact, I'd say he's thriving. You should see him at church, all dressed up in his new suit, leading the youth group in prayer. He's a natural leader, that one. A true man of The Lord."
The SoulWatch on Micah's wrist flashed red. Doug's stayed a steady, unwavering green.
David stood his ground, glaring at Doug, his voice calm and even, "I'm glad to hear Johnny's doing well. Johnny's always made his own choices."
"You see, Johnny is at a pivotal moment," Doug said. "A moment of decision. A moment where guidance is crucial."
David's stomach twisted. "And let me guess—you don't think I'm the right kind of guidance."
Doug's smile didn't waver. It never did. "Giant Faith believes in community. In protecting those we care about."
"David's worth more than a hundred of your little church boys." Abby stepped forward, her voice calm but loaded.
"At least he knows how to actually care about people. He doesn't need a sermon to tell him how."
Doug's eyebrow raised, his gaze sliding to her with condescension. "Look at you, defending him while he sweeps up shit." He gestured around the shelter, lip curling. "This place suits him. Dirty work for dirty people. But Johnny? He's meant for greater things."
"You wouldn't understand what this place is about," Abby fired back.
She stepped forward with a calm, precise movement that belied the storm brewing in her eyes. Her voice cut through the noise, sharp and clear as a bell. "I think it's time for you to leave, Doug."
She didn't raise her voice, didn't need to.
Doug's head snapped towards Abby, his smug superiority cracking like a poorly fitted mask. "And who are you to tell me what to do?" he spat, taking a step closer to her, attempting to impose his physical presence.
Abby didn't flinch. She stood her ground, her voice unwavering. "This is David's place of work. You're disrupting the animals and the peace here. You need to go." Her eyes were steady, her gaze unyielding.
She was a wall, immovable and strong, her loyalty to David etched into every line of her body.
Doug's jaw ticked. His smile returned—but it was too wide, too brittle, like he was trying to glue his power back together in real time.
"You think you can protect him?" he laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "You think you're safe? You have no idea what you're up against."
Abby stepped forward, her voice like ice. "He doesn't need to run, Doug. He has people who care about him, who support him. Something you wouldn't understand."
"You think you're so smart, don't you?" Doug snarled at Abby. "You think you can keep him safe? You're wrong. You're both wrong." He took a step back, his eyes gleaming with malice. "You'll see. You'll both see. And when you do, don't come crawling to the church for help. You'll get none."
Doug cocked his head, appraising Abby with a condescending gaze. "You know, I always wondered what kind of person would choose to spend their days with filthy animals instead of serving the Lord. Guess now I know."
Abby met his stare unflinchingly, her voice calm but laced with steel. "The only filth I see here is the hate you're spewing."
She stepped directly between him and David.
"Big mouth for such a small girl," Doug growled.
But before he could move, Abby spoke again, her words precise and cutting. "Respect is earned, Doug. Not demanded at the end of a fist. Now, I believe I asked you to leave. Don't make me ask again."
"C'mon, man," Micah said, his voice strained. "We should go. We've got places to be."
Micah cleared his throat, a sharp, uncomfortable sound. "Doug, seriously. Let's just go."
David has never seen Micah's face pale before. A dog whimpered in the distance.
For a moment, Doug didn't move, his gaze boring into David's. Then, with a final, contemptuous snort, he straightened up, turning on his heel. "Fine. We'll go. But this isn't over, Sheffield. Not by a long shot."
Doug looked back, "By the way, I brought you a little something that may actually help you David" He let a stack of papers fall to the floor with a thud behind him. A parting shot.
They looked like church brochures.
But Doug wasn't done. "I'd be careful if I were you, Sheffield," his voice a low, taunting rumble. "Obedience is a virtue, after all. Wouldn't want to end up like your friend Noel, would we?"
Micah went rigid. "Don't." The word came out raw.
Doug's grin returned, smug and venomous, "Just stating facts about what happens to kids who can't follow rules."
When Abby stepped forward again, Micah found himself drifting toward her—not consciously, just drawn. Their eyes met for a moment, and something passed between them. Recognition.
"We delivered the message," Micah said, voice rougher now. "We're done here."
Doug's eyes narrowed, noting the shift. "Since when—"
"Since now." Micah's jaw clenched. His hand drifted to his wrist—where his SoulWatch should've been, but wasn't.
"Let's go."
Doug brushed past Micah and left the shelter. His words lingered.
"Micah," David finally spoke, his voice steady despite the storm brewing inside him. "You don't have to follow him. You can make your own choices, too."
Micah's gaze flicked away, his jaw working silently. For a moment, his fingers twisted in his pocket, a nervous gesture that belied his usual arrogance. "It's not that simple, David," he murmured. His voice was barely audible.
Micah lingered in the doorway, his back to David. Then—quietly, without turning—he said,
"You should know... Johnny still talks about you. Not out loud, not to them. But he does. When he thinks no one's listening."
David froze, bleach-slick fingers clenched around the mop handle.
Micah glanced over his shoulder, just once.
"He's not gone. Not completely."
But before he could say more, Micah stepped back, his expression shuttering closed. "I gotta go," he muttered, turning away and pulling the door shut behind him with a quiet click. A far cry from Doug's dramatic exit, but somehow more resonant.
David and Abby stood in silence.
Then, finally, something about the brochures Doug left behind caught David's eye.
Johnny's face prominently featured beneath bold text: "Pathlight Youth Leadership: Transformation Through Obedience."
He picked up the brochure with trembling fingers, staring at Johnny's image, his once-warm eyes, the boy he loves, now a glossy GCF poster-boy. The image seemed to mock him. David's fingers traced over his face.
Abby stood silent for a long time, her fists still clenched from the confrontation. Then she hugged David.
"You're strong, David. Stronger than Doug. Stronger than that church." She relinquished her grip.
"And, remember, you're not alone in this. You have people who care about you, who will fight with you."
David stayed silent. Shiloh had curled into her corner—no longer the fierce protector, just another caged animal who'd failed her post. David knew exactly how that felt.
After a few minutes, he ripped up the brochure in his hand, piece by tiny piece.
The pieces fell like snow onto the wet concrete, Johnny's printed smile dissolving into the bleach puddles at his feet.