Don’t think about Daisy. I sit on my mattress, just for a moment, and allow myself to let that open wound bleed at my feet. What the hell am I supposed to do with a puppy? Is this a cruel joke? “Fuck,” I hiss, yanking at the hair on my nape. If my parents taught me anything before my life went up in flames, it’s that I can’t take care of helpless animals. I’m not built for it.
