October

September retreated away into the past sooner than I'd anticipated, breaking out into the new month of October. In the ending stretch of September days, I found that I struggled to tear Lottie's beautiful face from my mind—Though, I didn't exactly try to. But it was different now, the subtlety of acknowledgment rather than the jabbing of questions that busied my mind. No longer did I wonder why she was there, as the answer had already been presented to me. The fact still struck me here and there, realizing and recalling it again and again. Wow. I'm in love.

With the certainty of an answer, I rose to it almost immediately, accepting it into my lifestyle. If there was anything Mom and Dad had made a point to iterate as I grew up was that love was always okay, no matter who you loved. So, I allowed myself to indulge in all of its pleasantries. I retold my past happy memories with Lottie to myself in my mind over and over, melting into a goop of giddy contentment and sometimes burying my face in my paws in the reminder of the enlivening and cozy feeling to be with her, even when nobody else could see it. I babbled about her to both of my parents more often than I would have cared to admit, but they didn't seem to mind, beaming my joy back at me as they listened with every word. It didn't take long for Mom to begin to suspect something as she asked me just days before the end of the month if there was something she needed to know about Lottie and me. I told her everything.

Once October arrived, the free trial of warm temperatures appeared to have run out. The air turned brisk and pinched my cheeks with light fingers, teasing of the frigidity that was yet to come when the winter season would near. Compared to the state I had been in during July and August, I had begun to soar the waves of the flip side. My mind evidently decided almost overnight that it had put me through enough and began to represent my thoughts with optimistic possibilities and appreciation for the little things, like how the light in the morning started out so delicate or how my coffee tasted unusually smooth some days. Based on how life was in all of its unpredictability and fluctuations, it was an unspoken rule to expect my mental health to drop again at some point, but I hardly spent a thought on this in the month of October. If this was positivity at long last, then I would ride this rollercoaster until my head spun.

October was a month of being rounded up in the house most nights, of learning casually timed weight of new smiles, of healing, at least to an extent. October had been my most favored month by far this year as I began to climb up above the gloom. A certain energy buzzed in the air during those days before the ending week that would carry the holiday at the end of the month, a stirring of the forward motion of change. Maybe it was only temporary—Actually, it would have been a miracle if it wasn't—But by the second half of the month, I understood somewhere deep in the flawless certainty of knowledge that my life was finally better again.

It was on the day before Halloween that Mom delivered an announcement to the table at breakfast. She had finished a list of family activities to a quantity and quality she was satisfied with. It was the list she'd been gradually piecing together more and more since early August. She read off the list to Dad's and my listening ears after we had halted our meal. There were limited ways we could entertain ourselves around the house, so it was easy to accept the suggestions. At that table, no later than nine in the morning on October thirtieth, we sealed a promise to always prioritize each other no matter what and that our new, action-packed schedule would begin on the first of November.

November

November began in a flurry of activity. Suddenly, we were actually leaving the house every day along with our morning walks and the change was so drastic that it seemed like I had borrowed an entirely new life. First of all, we began to go out to dinner every single night as a family, aiming for something new each night but comfortable to settle if something of that sort wasn't available. Once in a while, I wondered how we could afford it all, but never bothered to mention it aloud. That wasn't the only daily event that beckoned us out of the house, either—Every day, we ventured out to try something new, whatever we could find in the general area. It was like we were on some kind of extended mission. Actually, I supposed we sort of were. Project Reclaiming Puppyhood, as we referred to the entire endeavor after Mom called it that once and we all picked up on the habit.

The first snowfall appeared during the night between the sixth and the seventh. Just like that, the town was decorated in a festive winter wonderland. For us specifically, this opened the doors to several opportunities, but closed off several more. You win some, you lose some. We adjusted, bringing up the topic amidst casual conversation to discuss our next open options. Most moments, it was fitting for a unanimous agreement that the frigid temperatures, which was only predicted to continue dropping across the weeks, wouldn't be stopping us. Our second promise was secured.

As snow swept in with dense, tall amounts, though it might have disoriented us or defined an inconvenience at the most, PRP propelled on in full swing. Not only was October the best month for my mental health, it was perhaps the busiest, at the very least since July. We shot for activities and events that could have been enjoyed by both adults and children. It was right in the name, after all. My mind built up with memories from the month alone, cramming it to the brim.

We went roller skating, where I had surrendered to a dramatic slip and crashed right down onto my back. We went out for ice cream—Several times, in fact, since it was a simple choice. I tried fishing with Dad as he directly demonstrated all of the techniques. We'd been around the nearest shops countless times by the end of the month, leaving stacks of purchased items collecting in the corner of my room as I wasn't certain where to store any of them. I learned to expect silly snow battles and play as they became what was almost a routine when traveling home from dinner most days unless one of us was too tired from the day's weight or we had seperate plans to be attended to instead. The adventurous schedule was just hectic enough to rescue me from my detrimental mental state, forming space for genuine and thorough enjoyment. Sure, we might have been snuck some awkward glances when we distorted our voices into amusing tones for the comedic effect to snatch a laugh from each other, experimented with ridiculous clothes and hats in cozy shops, or showed up at a more kid-friendly event with full and devoted intent to participate, but that wasn't important. Even if we were embarrassing losers, and we probably were, we were embarrassing losers together.

As much of an incline that I'd achieved, I still didn't have everything. With every journey I submitted to, I silently considered what it would have been like if Lottie had joined me. I led myself down a trail of imagining all of the laughs we would share, the frequent smiles that would have been tossed back and forth, sinking into each other's arms amidst someplace unfamiliar to us both, and then the truth would shortly follow. As of right now, it was a stretch to say we were friends, since our connection had strained to breaking the very last time we spoke, but surely I could have found the right way to mend it. Maybe it would come to me in a dream, out and about in a moment of realization, or much more likely, once I asked for advice. Besides, more than half a year remained before I would finally get the opportunity to see her again. Well, that was fine. I could wait for her.

December

The month of my twentieth birthday crept around in due time. The snowfall intensified, shooting blizzards through the town so thick that it was near impossible to determine direction. It wasn't far into the month when we gave in to the relentless winter weather and decided to stay home on the days that wet snowflakes swirled in the air and the wind rattled the walls. It was somewhere around this time that we had begun to slip from tradition, leaving the house less and less frequently with the excuse of the season but maintaining a loose schedule for the sake of progress. It seemed to have done the work it needed, though.

The utter serenity from October and a ways into November had already died out like a surge of adrenaline and in its place, the sense of normalcy and familiarity. However, with the thrill passed and done with, a more subtle aspect that it had carried remained in recollection of what had been there before. A peace, or what I labeled as one in the extended absence of stumbling over damaging thoughts and losing my footing trying to weave my way to the end. Peace, at last, if not particularly joy again quite yet. Progress was a winding road, but it appeared that I might have been heading the right way.

If the month of December 2015 was represented with a taste, it was smooth, rich hot chocolate. Across the weeks, it had developed into a sort of theme, each of us delighting in a mug or four during the days we shut ourselves in to evade the harsh, icy air. In December, it seemed like somebody always had a steaming mug between their paws. We sipped from our mugs at the table when the wind screeched from outside, while we gathered together on the couch, even while we laughed the evening away immersed in a family game night. If this was how we would carry ourselves into the new year, then I had no complaints.

The constant snowfall eased into nothing more than thin flakes just days before my birthday. With the slimming of the falls, the idea of our outdoor activities that we had spent doing last month slinked back into my head. I had expected Mom and Dad to have forgotten about it by now, that it was just a phase we shared for a little while, but something in their postures relaxed once the weather shifted. They must have been looking forward to restarting PRP once more when the air warmed again, even if they hadn't mentioned it to me yet. I'd grown accustomed to the snug habit of lounging around at home, preparing a scalding mug of hot chocolate whenever I missed the taste, but I planned to accept if the idea ever arose. It was the least I could do.

The twentieth came around after a lifetime of anticipation, an occasion some would call my "golden birthday". Mom was one of those animals, seemingly hoping to fuel my excitement for the day, but I couldn't quite follow the importance. Mom and Dad awoke me near nine o'clock on the special day, clearly bristling with eager anticipation for something I had not yet discovered. Even my own stomach flittered at the occasion. It was slight before I'd left my bedroom, but the second I opened the door to leave with my parents standing like bodyguards at either side, tingles rippled through me with thrill. Pastel balloons bobbed against the ceiling and colorful streamers lined the walls. The realization of a surprise party—And certainly unexpected at that—Found its way to me just moments before it was announced to me.

Paper plates and red party cups had set places around the table when I emerged into the living room, stunned beyond words at the abrupt change of landscape. Eight spaces were positioned at the table, which piqued my curiosity at the fact that I hardly knew five other animals, let alone had five friends, but we set the preparations aside to make haste of a breakfast of crepes with berries and coffee. Over the meal, Mom let me know that she had invited a few of her and Dad's friends to visit for the party and one was bringing her twin boys of eleven years. This information eased my confusion for a while, but only until noon, once three adults and two children stood in our house after the absence of visitors for months, Mom informed me that each of her friends had already arrived and we only had enough places at the table for the mother to share a plate with her twins. Two places were left unclaimed.

It was later on in the event, the adults gathered near the wall to chat while the twins poked around the balloons, that the answer was presented to me as the final two guests appeared at the door together. Mom and Dad had somehow managed to contact two of my closest friends from back in middle school before we all had separated for high school; a black lab named Shadow and a brown-patched rough collie named Akira. They'd hardly changed a bit since I last remembered them, effortless comedic timing and a great listening ear each. Mom had brought out a camera at some point, snapping more pictures of us three than I could count, even trying to sneak some as we engaged in casual conversation, though I pretended not to notice. As the event wound down at last, it wasn't even a question: I would remember this day for years to come and maybe past then.

The next day after my birthday, suddenly it was Toy Day weighing over our minds. The question was no longer what we hoped to achieve for my birthday, but plans for the upcoming holiday as well as the issue of gifts. I hadn't recalled that the time between the two occasions had been so compressed. The following day, the twenty-second, Mom and Dad tore me from sleep by teetering through the front door, each supporting the lifting of a bulky tree to put up in the living room as we did every year. To lengthen the time we would enjoy it, we organized the decorations that same morning, wrapping garland, fragile ornaments, and red and green droplets of lights across the exterior. They must have wrapped gifts early, as they had all taken their place under the tree where pine needles already clustered that night. On the afternoon of the twenty-third, I requested to make my way to a shop alone for the sake of privacy in gift shopping, purchasing a dramatic-appearing thick novel for Mom, a boxed set of particularly showy ballpoint pens for Dad, and a personalized card for both. I wrapped up everything as soon as they had both closed themselves off into their bedroom for the night and slid them under the tree under the dim atmosphere of late evening.

The festive holiday came into play at last. We tore open wrapped gifts in the morning, dressed in our pajamas and beaming smiles so broad that my cheeks ached—All with a mug each of hot chocolate, of course. I received a board game in a box decorated with grinning animals, several t-shirts, a packet of round cookies, and a ticket for an EDM concert taking place in late April. We entertained ourselves with the board game right after we'd finished eating lunch with a refill on our hot chocolate.

Even after the day had gone, the festivity still clouded the air like smoke. Snow caked the ground, trees, and roofs, calling for a lengthy shoveling session. We all shared a laugh the morning afterward on the twenty-ninth when we swung open the door to leave on our walk to find that the sky had dumped another load of snow right over our hard work overnight. I recalled the thirtieth for the event well into the shadowed point of the night, a joined caroling celebration with those in town as we all treaded through the sinking snow with no particular destination, raising our voices to muffle the screeching wind. On the thirty-first, Mom, Dad, and I disregarded our sleepiness and savored the young night, waiting to greet the near year of 2016 with a celebration of upbeat music pounding through the house and a multitude of snacks. We had never once rejoiced to this extent for the new year, but we'd all unspokenly acknowledged how it was the turn of new beginnings, a fresh start to form a better quality of life. We then proceeded to withstand written complaints in letters taped to our door from the neighbors for the late-night volume.

January

On the first day of January, on the brand new year of 2016, the sun pried through the clouds after weeks of snowfall. The temperatures kept a steady pace well below zero, bitterly frigid to the point where it pinched my face when I carried in the daily mail from the mailbox at the end of the walkway out from the house. This was around the point that it slowly became clearer and clearer that when temperatures sunk, the hesitance to leave the house on a walk or gather the energy to thoroughly enjoy myself amidst the icy temperatures rose. Luckily, this problem seemed to have been dealt with for me as a townwide statement declared casual travel to be brought to a minimum or even to nothing at all with the intensity of the chill.

I was somewhat sure that this was why the month of January was the least memorable before I would return to Happy Home, only vague occasions weaving through my fragmented memory of the short period of time. None of us complained about the abrupt ending of the routine of our daily walks, though we ended up never once picking up the habit again. After the vanishing of the entire first portion of our day, the remainder of our routine gradually fell apart as well. We stuck ourselves to it for the first couple of weeks, setting aside time to do something together inside the house like enjoying a family game or sitting around the table, but I was soon falling back into my old habits.

I allowed myself later and later rising times in the morning, gave in to the beckoning of naps throughout the day, and decided on bedtimes gradually earlier in the evening. Just like I had started with, I was working down a path of relying on sleep more than consciousness because there was nothing else to do. I couldn't leave my house, had barely scraps of activities around the house, nothing. A bone-deep loneliness began to set in, withering up the unshaken joy from last month and leaving a sluggish numbness behind while I curled up in bed. A worried glint crept into my parents' eyes the longer that my habit strengthened, but this never strayed too long in my mind. Instead, a question plagued my mind that was enough to flip my stomach. Was I losing all of the progress I'd made?

There were no words for the extent of how fortunate I was when my concerns had been proved nothing more than a quiver in my stride. The incline proceeded the moment when Mom redirected my focus to the list she had been adding to, suggesting to get out of the house for a couple weeks and go somewhere on an extended vacation. That same evening, the three of us clustered around the dining table, straining for a glimpse at a pocket-sized travel guide listing off the best places around the island to take a vacation. A collection of cabins sitting at the ocean border, designed both for temporary and permanent use, drew our eyes. It was at the edge of the island, far up north, and would have needed two nights to arrive even by a vehicle, according to Mom and Dad's guesses. The space was extravagant and contained tall windows looking out onto the sand, a balcony, and what was described as a stylish and homey feel of interior. I could have tested that for myself. We booked reservations for the end of May before the day was done.

My recollection of the month blurred from there. My short period of the rebirth of old habits had been cut short right then and there, but this was the last truth I was certain of. Before I could blink, the month was already creeping towards its end. Within the last week that I could call January, a realization struck me in the drowsy spell of drifting off to sleep. It was not only February we would have been reaching. It would have been the three-year mark since I first stepped foot into the HHDA by means of employment.

February

An extra day had been added to the end of February this year as a result of the leap year. It had never meant much of anything to me—It was just another day—But Mom in particular seemed to track this sort of thing, this year more than ever, for some reason. Within the first couple of days, she pulled me aside and told me that she sensed that this was meant to be an important month for us, both with the change in the years and the fact that we had been seeking out a sign. What I sensed, however, was that she was looking into it too deeply.

The intense temperatures held up for about the first week before they jumped up again. The difference was immensely significant, turning the twinges of freezing air to only slight nips on one's cheeks. I didn't experience it firsthand, though, and was informed of this one morning over coffee, but I still took a breath of relief. Not for the rising temperatures, which would have proved pleasant but not what was in my mind, but the concept of outdoor activities opening up again that would have added that much more structure into my life.

And add it did. Just like that, all of the shops, restaurants, and other buildings we visited were slapping open signs on their windows. It was essentially truth to assume that we would be leaving the house more frequently now, but it was a passing comment from Dad that proved it was not under the influence of PRP. He said that he and Mom had been talking, predicting that this month probably felt difficult for me to get through because of the anniversary it carried, so they just wanted me to have happy associations with the month instead. At this point, I'd seen the efforts from both Mom and Dad; they appeared to be trying extra hard this month to keep me stable. It all seemed a bit unnecessary, striving to celebrate for an entire month for an event that had even been positive in the past, but I also lacked the wiggle room to complain.

The snowfall of the wintertime slowed, only dropping snow onto our heads overnight here and there. It showed up as a consistent background in everything that we did outside, clomping through the snow to reach literally any place. It was no longer an endeavor to visit all new places, but instead an action taken after a discussion of which I had been most fond of. I had particularly enjoyed a cozy restaurant under gentle orange glows purely for the comfy vibes, a fluorescent-light museum rather far from the house of ancient artifacts and such, and a compact little clothing shop that had various types of attire in every color under the sun for every season.

Across the month, we visited these places three more times, four for the restaurant, where the servers began to recognize us by name. The more frequently that we went out to some familiar place in the morning or the evening, the more that a realization met my eye—Not what I was seeing, but what I had ceased to see. When we had first begun the operation of PRP, back in September or October or something around there, shifting eyes of uncertainty dancing around me had been common, so much so that at least one pair shrunk back in a double take at the sight of me with each place I went. That was the stretch of time when my name was still wafting around the area for what had happened at the HHDA. I wasn't sure precisely when it had stopped occurring, but it was the ending breath of February that I finally noticed. They no longer cast glances of suspicion towards me like I planned to lash out and tear down whatever I'd been standing next to at that moment. In fact, nobody hardly looked at me at all, didn't turn their heads to stare whenever I walked into a room, but in the event that our eyes met, the only result was a casual breaking of the gaze. I had been forgotten. My mistakes, my name, and I had been forgotten. At last, I no longer treaded somewhere my name was beaten, spit, or stomped on. At last, I was free.

My struggles were over.

March

The melting of the snow and the muddy puddles that it left behind in patches was a hint of brighter days. The temperature of the air steadily increased with every day, easing into what could have even been a touch of warmth. The winter was arriving at its end while spring was coming around, taking its time at that—And it was three months before I would return to Happy Home.

At the very least, the elasticity in my capability of returning to the realm of joy had fixed. The calmness of each day carried into the next, a steady routine. With such a sturdy foundation, I had the base to build up my life from it again. Then again, with the evident success of PRP and everything similar that was born from it, it was time to start easing back into my old life again. Now that both Project Reclaiming Puppyhood and the month of February had come to their conclusions, the number of times we left the house dropped to once every few days, once a week, barely then. But now, it didn't quite settle as an excuse to sink back into dead habits. Something had shifted in the atmosphere this time.

Yes, it might have been exactly like my old life without the work, the absence of responsibility commanded my attention, leaning into the couch as we all gathered together, the clinking of silverware against dishes as we came together for a meal at the table, or even the thoughtless remarks of suggestions of things to do as a family here and there when they were thought of. But it wasn't quite the same, almost like some kind of sequel. In some sort of way, sleepiness more easily shrunk away from my face, reducing the temptation to resort to sleep to nearly nothing. The way Dad would wrap an arm around my shoulders or Mom would hold me close with a little tune she was humming brought a smile to my face every time. Sometimes, the love I felt for them stirred a genuine warmth in the depth of my chest, like a crackling fire in the deepest hour of winter.

It was similar to something I noticed had been starting to dwell within me. It was much more of a subtle act, a tickle or a faint touch, and because of that I wondered if it wasn't something I really felt at all, but was something that accompanied me in my head. The colors that composed my vision were thrust into a brighter lens, the morning sun bleeding through my window lay a more illuminated blanket atop my own, a relaxed tranquility erasing the loneliness wherever it had settled, even as default when there was nothing else to feel. It was only a thoughtless observation at the beginning, just a short little consideration followed by a little remark something along the lines of well, I'm definitely happier about this. The same trail of thought visited me that night, the very night I lay awake shuddering with tears. Not of distress, not of pain, but of a surge of elated emotion. I had done it. I had climbed above my struggles and found happiness on the other side of it. Not that artificial kind of happiness that one got addicted to before life plummeted. I was back where I had started in the first place, in the very best way. I was happy.

I was not the only animal with clear triumph this month. I hadn't checked on the progress of Happy Home's revival for months up until this point, but on the day of March twenty-sixth, Mom beckoned me to the table with Dad in the seat beside her as they clustered around an opened newspaper and with a beaming smile etched into her face. She pointed me to an article in the middle of the sheet, a particularly lengthy segment that I quickly realized by the appearance of the name that it contained details on the HHDA. Mom was smiling like she'd just won a million Bells, so it must have good news.

It most certainly was. It was the very first article that I had witnessed with my own eyes describing the entire issue as a thing of the past, retelling of the time when Happy Home had nearly fallen. According to the article, the HHDA had been on the steady rise for several months, building up a customer base towards where it had been before the downfall. It wasn't anything near what it had been back then, but the general rating had climbed up to a total of four out of five stars after dipping as low as one or two. Lyle had told me when I had first been sent home that he and Lottie would continue to build up the company while I was away. It would seem they had done just that.

April

Quite like the common phrase, the month of April opened up with rain showers. The gloomy weather wasn't shy about its appearance, either. Deep into the late hours of the night, rain clobbered against my window as furious winds rattled it in its case. More days than not, I peeked out the window to find grass drenched and sidewalks slick. Around the end of the first week, the rain had begun to carry out into the day as well as the night. Almost surreal gray storm clouds concealed the sky as rain spilled down overhead and splattered across the already damp ground. It's a year of dramatic weather, I guess, I thought to myself once as I had held the curtain drawn back to gaze out the window.

For the most part, that was just April, nothing but rain dribbling onto the roof amidst dimly illuminated days. Apart from January, it was just about the least remarkable month, what with such dreary days. Mom worried about the EDM concert that we booked tickets to experience, given to me on the day of my twentieth birthday, concerned that the rain would hold it back. Considering it had been planned for since December and was planned with intentions of emotional value, she stated that it would have been such a letdown to miss it. I didn't sway particularly either way, given that the style of music was a bit loud and aggressive to me but I appreciated the time and effort.

On the day of April nineteenth, the day of the concert, the rain had failed to let up, nor had the musicians canceled. We braved the powerful winds and spraying raindrops with our raincoats and umbrellas, making the journey to the meeting place at the arranged time to investigate, only to discover that it had been scheduled inside all along. We lost ourselves in an afternoon of flashing, vibrant lights, maybe a hundred animals all gathered together on one floor, and music that throbbed through the air and quivered the floor at our feet.

The rain receded as abruptly as it occurred. Blue skies peeked through the storm clouds, inching back into place while the damp patches across the sidewalks lingered for a while longer. The bleakness that the weather had trapped in the temperature was gone in what seemed like an instant, replaced with the briskness of a chilly springtime in the sweeping breezes it carried. Mom and Dad leaped on this opportunity almost practically immediately, recalling the entertainment in the concert, and listed off several more bookings they had made over the lunchtime table. We took action the minute the opening broke in the sweeter temperatures and tightly packed up our schedules for the remainder of the month.

For the last week of April, we returned to nature—Mom's suggestion. We prepared picnics, scheduled tours of unfamiliar patches of life's natural state, and hauled ourselves out of bed in the pitch dark hours of the morning to watch the sun rise from where we gained a full view of the early skies. We even planned for our arrival in three outdoor concerts across the week. The repeated routine soon grew old, but the faces and constant presences of my two best friends refreshed the situation. In the shrinking away of April and the arrival of May, we had all agreed not to load ourselves with as much pressure in the scheduling. We only had two weeks at home, anyway.

May

Like December, the month of May delivered a conspicuous resemblance. It wasn't a taste, but a sight. The dense wooded image of trees that reached up far into the sky with climbing branches, waving tiny leaves amidst the descending sunlight. For specifics, I emerged into the new month absorbed in a different sensation than the last. After almost a year of consistent devotion in affection, it had been building up inside of me, fuller and fuller, and now, it boiled over. To sustain balance, I longed to send that energy back into the world, to carry others and help them to where I had found myself. It wasn't like it was an entirely new feeling, of course, as working at Happy Home had easily constructed my stride in supporting others. But for once, I dedicated my first step towards going out and discovering ways to help out, outside of the circle of my known options.

I picked up so many volunteer opportunities across the first two weeks that I'd lost count, collecting them like coins. All except one were even restricted to the first week, leaving me hustling from one place to the next during each fleeting day. I assisted in a struggling kitchen to reach meals to those who needed them. I offered my support to wildlife experts to rescue a poisoned segment of trees. I even helped out as a medical assistant until I caught a glimpse of a bloody injury and sunk into a lightheaded spell so intense that I failed to stand up properly. By the time the first week had ended, the work of a month or more sat behind me.

For the entire seven days of the next week, I had taken up the temporary and part-time responsibility of an outdoor camp counselor. I was assigned to a rather large group of nine animals between the ages of five and eight. For the seven-day trial of the activity, I guided the kids as we ventured out across the woods, exploring a new segment with every day, taught them how to overcome little challenges along the way for if it would happen while they were alone someday, and cooked our own lunches as we crouched around a crackling fire while smoke wafted up into the leaves. They were an unusually shy crowd for their age group, but often I noticed the silent curiosity shimmering in their eyes. I tried to prompt them about their interests when there weren't any important issues to be discussed, but one refused to talk about anything other than war. Well, that was an experience, at the very least.

On May sixteenth, Mom, Dad, and I packed up a shared suitcase and departed on our trip to the cabin we had booked back in January. The three of us all filed into a train as early as half-past six in the morning, but even after keeping ourselves seated until the sun began to creep below the horizon, we were only halfway to the edge of the island. We leaped for a hotel for the night and set off at seven the next morning. Our second train rolled up to the station at a quarter to noon, marking our arrival just minutes after the turn of the hour. Sure, I could have agreed with the claimed "homey" feel as we wandered inside to observe the interior, especially with the sunlight pooling over glossy wood floors, but the abundance of floorspace and lack of rugs to fill it struck me as an uncommon and perhaps unusual design approach. Oh, well. Who was I to complain?

From the seventeenth until the thirtieth, this dwelling was our home. Some days, we lounged around inside watching television—We had no television at home, so we struggled not to indulge in it now that we did—and others, we walked along the beach, picking out shells from the sand. I expressed once to Dad that, with such relentless work behind me, it seemed that I wasn't doing something that I should have been. He responded by reminding me that we were on vacation, that we were meant to let go of our worries. I listened to the words, but they didn't quite sink in deeply enough for it to resonate. After all, the mental space of a vacation hardly overpowered what would have been arriving in as little as fourteen days.

June

There was a lifetime stretch of preparation to be made. The three of us reached our home again on the first of June, prying open our mailbox to check what we had missed in our two-week absence to find three separate envelopes. One of them was a bill accidentally brought to the wrong address and another an ad for the tree-rescuing affair that I'd already spent three mornings volunteering with. Neither of those were what caught my eye. Mom had practically shoved the third envelope into my paws, pressing of its importance, clearly eager for me to take a glance over it. What my gaze had first been drawn to was the pink and purple stamp of a house in the back corner: the official Happy Home stamp. The neatness of the handwriting listing off my name and address had attracted my attention almost instantly after. That was most certainly not Lyle's handwriting, as his writing was completed much more carelessly. Lottie was actually writing to me again. As I carried the envelope into the house with intentions to tear it open at the table, I couldn't help but wonder if she was still upset.

Mom, Dad, and I clustered together at the table to scan through the letter as one. I was to be expected at the HHDA again on the day of Monday, June twentieth, coincidentally the day I'd be half-past my twentieth year. Another uniform would be sent to my home, since I had just begun to grow out of my last one around the time that I'd stopped working. I had brought all of my work belongings home with me in my briefcase, so I would need to bring that with me. There would be no extra training and I would have to pick up my old schedule immediately, though there had been some changes that would be explained on-site. It appeared to be a bit harsh towards instructions, but I supposed that I'd reviewed the schedule before and now was a better time than any to keep up. At the end, I was directed to arrive at my usual time of eight o'clock and find Lyle once I had reached the building. It was just like how I had begun at the beginning, I realized. Lottie signed off there, and my new life was initiated.

Progress towards the final day was set in motion. A generously sized box appeared on the doorstep on the sixth, carrying with it my newest uniform. Mom suggested practicing my walk to the building, but the idea of prematurely running into Lyle—Or even worse, Lottie—Twinged my stomach with shame and I quickly declined. And so, instead, Mom and Dad spent spurts of time throughout the last days pretending to be customers and clients of mine, asking about the company and building up my social strength. I couldn't even contemplate a vague image of my last proper social interaction, excluding all of the volunteer work. I exercised my identity switch, leaping headfirst into thoughtless confidence and charm, trying to mentally align it with my nearing changes to determine the best approach. It worked last time, but I also couldn't quite shake the moment when I slammed Lottie against the wall, demanding her to talk to me while she sat on the floor, shuddering in hysterical tears.

Predictions of how the day would arrive spun through my mind for hours on end, but never as much as they haunted me the night before, on the nineteenth, as I lay as alert as three cups of coffee would have gotten me, counting down the minutes in my consciousness to keep myself busy. My eyes had already adjusted to the dimness of nightfall, broadening my sight of the room around me, but my mind buzzed with activity and my stomach clenched in stress. My expectations of sleep had been reduced to none—Started at none, more like—So I decided to smooth out my worries by thorough consideration.

I had hurled the concept of physically walking back into the building for the first time in a year and actually starting up the same work through my mind so many times that it had stirred a genuine question: Did I want to do this at all? The easy answer was yes, of course, I couldn't live without it for any longer. But stepping through the doors without breaking down into a nervous breakdown would surely take a ridiculous amount of restraint. As this thought process tumbled through my mind again and again and again, I lay on my side with my cheek nuzzled into the coolness of my pillow and had no other choice but to accept it. It was about to be my reality, no matter how it would make me feel when the moment came around.

Maybe I had been asking myself the wrong question. The first time I dove into my work at the HHDA, my tiny, glowing light in the darkness and uncertainty of my future as a seventeen-year-old kid putting his name out into the world was a single question. I had asked myself who I wanted to be. It was the very first time I had been on the thin edge between two vastly different identities. Did I want to keep my old ways, to prioritize kindness and gentleness and loyalty? Was I ready to leave it all behind to become confident, bold, fearless, not a face I'd ever worn before that point before? Maybe those weren't the questions I was meant to be asking myself at all. Maybe I'd had it all wrong. And so, I retold it. That night, I asked myself something new.

Who are you, Digby the Shih Tzu?