Becki’s already on the phone with her neighbor, giving him the rundown on the truck as I slide into the driver’s seat. She’s nodding and gesturing with her hands as she talks, and she says thank you at the end of it, so I guess it’s a green light on getting the beast hauled back to the yard.
“I’ll order the parts first thing in the morning when I figure out what we need. If I can’t figure it out, I’ll call and ask for advice on which ones to get.”
I turn the car on, and a blast of AC hits us right in the face. Fuzzy bananas, that sure feels good after standing out there on a dusty road under the hot sun. I don’t think it’s my imagination that Becki sinks a few inches lower in her seat to catch more of the cool air. Or that her whole body seems to slump in relief.
“Imagine that,” she mumbles. “A man willing to take advice. Will wonders never cease?”
I bite back a grin because right now isn’t the time for grinning. Right now is the time to get my bottom busy fixing the truck. I practically said I could do it, so I don’t want to let Becki down. I also want to figure out how the heck I’m going to fix the problem between us. My grandfather also never met an issue he couldn’t eventually fix, so I want to take some inspiration from him.
“I’m fairly certain they won’t,” I say under my breath, just loud enough for Becki to hear even past the roaring air conditioner.
CHAPTER 18
Becki
The following afternoon, I’m shoveling dung while Finn is working on the truck out in the driveway. He was able to order the parts this morning, and he went to Topeka to pick them up. Since he made a donation in the amount of the parts, I gave him the sanctuary’s credit card.
Two grand. Those parts cost two grand. As in thousand. And dollars.
I’ve been shoveling up literal crap for a while now, but I still haven’t managed to untangle my thoughts with the physical exertion. Usually, it works like a dang charm. Fuzzy bananas, all I keep thinking about is the same horrible, cyclical stuff.
What am I supposed to do the next time there’s an emergency? I’m always worried something is going to happen to one of the animals, but I do have a small fund for vet fees, should they be needed. I’m fairly confident I could fundraise for that, but what do I do if the truck breaks down again? Or the car? What would I do if the house’s roof caved in or I had a disaster with the plumbing or something? It’s old, so it’s not out of the question. How would I pay for that then? I could get a job, but it would mean leaving here. If I left here, I wouldn’t be able to look after the animals and keep up with their needs. I could hire someone, but it would mean I’d have to find a way to pay them, which would pretty much negate earning a salary. I could charge for tours of the sanctuary, but that seems terrible. The teacher in me says that education, especially for something so important, should be free. Calendars and Christmas cards are a great idea, but that’s for the animals, and it would only go so far. So would t-shirts and whatnot. Those won’t fix the next great catastrophe.
What if something should happen to me? I don’t even have insurance since I’m out here. I don’t know if any of my supporters would help me fundraise for that. It’s a big unknown. I’ve never really thought about those things before, and it sucks to think about it now. It gives me a whole heck of a lot of anxiety.
The only thing I can do is turn my thoughts to other issues.
Except I don’t focus on other issues.
Instead, my thoughts go straight to Finn. I know for a fact that his muscles are probably flexing and rippling with every movement out in the driveway. How could they not? They are naturally flexy and ripply. It would be much nicer to shovel poop with Finn by my side. Nicer for my eyes, and nicer for the rest of me. It would be even better to be shoveling poop with Finn’s incredibly huge shovel. And by poop and shovel, I’m really thinking about something else entirely.
For the love of…of shovels. Hmm, no, not shovels. Not that kind of shovel—not the big kind. Or the small kind. Or the male kind.
I shake my head and scoop up yet another shovelful. This wasn’t what I saw myself doing when I was a kid. I didn’t know Great Aunt May would die and that one day, I’d get her place. I didn’t think I’d transform it into this because I didn’t know anything about running a non-profit. I just wanted to help. I took all that on myself and based my whole business model on what other people were doing successfully, including the online stuff, the social media presence, and the videos. I got all those ideas from other people. I guess I just rolled with what was happening. I love my life, I love all of the animals, and I wouldn’t trade what I get to wake up and do every day for anything in the world.