Chapter 14: Pack Mentality
The fluorescent lights of the grocery store hummed overhead, a sterile white noise that did nothing to calm the buzz in Barnaby’s skull. The cart was heavy, its wheels wobbling under the weight. It wasn’t just the usual groceries—the sad lettuce, the discount chicken, the generic cereal. This was provisioning for a different kind of household.
Two whole roasted chickens. A family-sized sack of brown rice. Industrial cans of baked beans. A tower of cheap, hearty bread. And beer. So much beer, clinking in the bottom basket.
Ram and Greta were back at the apartment, presumably wrestling or napping or doing something that involved a lot of noise and broken furniture. He’d insisted on going alone, needing the silence, the anonymity. But he felt them with him. The ghost of their musk clung to his clothes, his skin. The memory of their heat, their weight, their demanding eyes.
He was staring blankly at a wall of pasta sauces when a voice, dry and gravelly, spoke beside him.
“Hell of a load you’re hauling there.”
Barnaby flinched. An older man, maybe in his sixties, leaned on his own cart. He was gaunt, with tired eyes and hands that looked like worn leather. His cart was similarly burdened: massive bags of kibble, gallon jugs of water, economy packs of paper towels.
“Oh,” Barnaby stammered. “Yeah. Just… stocking up.”
The man nodded slowly, his gaze not on the cart, but on Barnaby’s face. “You got one of ‘em, don’t you? An anthro lady.”
The question was so direct it felt like a slap. Barnaby’s ears burned. “I… how did you…?”
A faint, knowing smile touched the man’s chapped lips. “Smell it on you, son. It’s in your pores. That… warm, furry smell. Like a den. Once you know it, you can’t mistake it.” He took a step closer, his voice dropping. “It’s in the way you stand, too. A little tense, like you’re always listening for something. Like you’re waiting for a command you’re too proud to admit you’d follow.”
Barnaby’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. This stranger was dissecting him under the harsh store lights, seeing everything.
“It’s two, actually,” Barnaby heard himself whisper, the confession torn from him by the man’s unsettling insight.
The man’s eyebrows raised. A low whistle escaped him. “Two. Already.” He didn’t sound surprised. He sounded resigned. “Yeah, that tracks. The second one come quick after the first?”
“Almost immediately.”
“Figures. They’re wired for it, see? Packs. One finds a good owner—a soft heart, a willingness to… accommodate—and she sends out a signal. Not a sound. Somethin’ in the air. A pheromone, maybe. Says ‘here’s a warm home, here’s a pair of open hands.’ Others catch it. They come to investigate. To apply for the position.” He chuckled, a sound like grinding stones. “You’ll be lucky if it stops at two.”
A cold trickle, separate from the store’s AC, traced Barnaby’s spine. “What do you mean?”
The man looked past him, down the long, bright aisle, seeing something else. “I had eight.”
Barnaby’s breath hitched.
“Eight,” the man repeated, letting the number hang. “Started with one, a sweet shepherd mix named Bonnie. Then came another. Then two more showed up at the same time. Like they’d coordinated. Before I knew it, my little house in the suburbs was a… a kennel. A beautiful, noisy, hungry, messy kennel. They’d play-fight and tear the drywall. They’d get jealous and piss on my clothes. They’d… well, you know the mess they can make. Times eight.” His eyes refocused on Barnaby. “The neighbors complained. Constantly. About the noise, the smell. The HOA sent me letters that looked like declarations of war.”
“What did you do?” Barnaby asked, his voice barely audible.
“Sold the house. Moved way out, remote. Bought twenty acres with a barn I’m converting. Got a septic system built for a small village.” He gestured to his cart. “This is my weekly run. My pilgrimage for supplies.” He looked Barnaby up and down, not with judgement, but with a profound, weary empathy. “You seem like a good kid. A librarian, right? I can tell. You like things quiet. Ordered.”
Barnaby nodded, helpless.
“It won’t be quiet. And it won’t be ordered. That one bitch, Ramona, she got her hooks in you deep, didn’t she? Let her mark the territory. Now you’re on the map.” He pushed his cart forward a few inches, preparing to go. “Enjoy the two while you can. Start saving for a bigger place. And for God’s sake, invest in a heavy-duty plunger and a lot of air freshener. You’re gonna need ‘em.”
He gave a final, slow nod and began to roll away, his cart creaking under its load.
“Wait,” Barnaby called after him. The man paused. “Does it… does it ever stop? The wanting? The… the more?”
The old man didn’t turn around. His shoulders slumped slightly. “I moved to the middle of nowhere to keep my eight. I drive two hours each way for these paper towels. What do you think?”
And then he was gone, around a corner stacked high with canned soup, leaving Barnaby alone in the buzzing, overlit silence.
The cart felt heavier. The lights felt harsher. The mundane sounds of the store—the beeping scanners, the squeaking sneakers, the muffled intercom—felt like they were coming from another planet. Eight. The number echoed. A pack. A full, rumbling, demanding, living, breathing pack. He thought of his tiny apartment, the shelves of carefully ordered books, the quiet peace of his garden. He thought of Ram’ throaty laugh, the possessive weight of her head in his lap. He thought of Greta’s competitive nuzzles, the way she looked at him like he hung the moon just for her. He thought of the warm, sealed plastic bags currently in the outside pocket of his backpack, a disgusting secret he’d carried from the park.
The man’s words coiled in his gut: You’re on the map.
He finished his shopping in a daze, adding a giant box of heavy-duty trash bags and an economy pack of leather leash leads to the cart. At the checkout, the young cashier’s eyes widened slightly at the volume of his purchase. Barnaby just stared at the conveyor belt, seeing not cans and bread, but a future. A crowded, chaotic, fur-covered future that smelled of musk and earth and home.
He loaded the bags into his small car, the suspension groaning. As he slid into the driver’s seat, he caught his own reflection in the rearview mirror. His eyes looked older. The man was right. He did look like he was waiting for a command.
He turned the key. The engine sputtered to life. Instead of heading straight home, he drove past his street, past the library, toward the edge of town. He found himself on a winding road that led into the wooded, hilly outskirts. He wasn’t looking for anything. Just looking.
After twenty minutes, he saw it. A weathered, hand-painted sign nailed to a tree: “FOR SALE BY OWNER.” A narrow, overgrown driveway snaked away from the road, disappearing into a thicket of pines. He couldn’t see a house. It was just land. Quiet, remote, shielded land.
His hands were tight on the wheel. His heart thumped a slow, heavy rhythm against his ribs.
He didn’t write down the number. He didn’t need to. The image of that driveway, leading away from everything, was already seared into his mind. A retreat. A potential den.
He turned the car around. The groceries, the beer, the leashes—they were for the now. For the two. But as he drove back toward the lights of his apartment, where two massive, loving, demanding creatures waited for him and their dinner, he knew.
The old man’s cart, full of supplies for eight, was a vision. A prophecy.
And a part of Barnaby Finch, the timid librarian, the gentle soul, already wanted to see it come true.