Neighbors

Chapter 1

Jennie is already halfway out the door when she notices the moving van.

She almost misses it entirely. Her bag is hanging from one shoulder, mind already a few blocks ahead of the rest of her. The day has that thin, in-between light to it—late enough to be bright, early enough that the street below still feels slower than it will in an hour.

It's parked crookedly near the entrance of the apartment building, the back doors wide open. Two movers carry boxes inside while someone stands nearby, half directing them and half chatting.

The whole thing looks mildly inconvenient in the way move-ins always do, a brief disruption to a building that usually runs on predictable quiet. The sound of tape peeling, cardboard shifting, a short burst of laughter that drifts up toward her before getting lost in the open air.

Jennie slows her steps slightly.

Not enough to make it obvious. Just enough to look.

The girl holding the clipboard isn't really directing anything. She's laughing about something one of the movers said, one hand resting on the head of a large curly-haired dog sitting patiently beside her.

There's something easy about her. Not loud, not trying. Just comfortably there, like she's stepped into the scene and somehow tilted the mood of it without meaning to. The dog stays pressed close to her leg, calm in the middle of the clutter, as if this is all part of a routine they've done before.

Goldendoodle, Jennie guesses.

She is not an expert. Still, she's fairly sure.

The dog looks strangely proud of himself for simply existing.

His chest is out a little, expression open and faintly ridiculous in a way that would be embarrassing on almost anyone else. On him, it works.

Jennie watches for a second longer than she means to.

The girl thanks the movers, takes one of the lighter boxes herself, and disappears inside the building with the dog trotting beside her like he belongs there already.

Jennie stands there for half a beat after they vanish from view, hand still near the strap of her bag.

Then she exhales through her nose, almost at herself.

Jennie shakes the thought away and heads to work.

The sidewalk is already warming under the sun. A motorcycle passes. Someone across the street is pulling open a metal gate with a sound that scrapes through the morning. By the time she reaches the corner, the moving van is just another small thing happening behind her.

She doesn't think about it again.

At least, not until a few days later.

⸻

Morning is quiet in the building.

The kind of quiet Jennie likes best—clean, undisturbed, held together by small familiar sounds. The hum of the elevator. The soft click of heels somewhere down another hallway. Water running briefly in a unit overhead, then stopping. The air-conditioning in the lobby working a little too well.

Jennie steps out of the elevator and starts toward the front doors, already reaching for her phone to check the time.

Her screen lights her face for a second. She's earlier than she thought, which almost never happens. She barely has time to register it.

At the same moment, the entrance opens.

A large curly dog trots inside first.

There's a small burst of morning air with him, cooler than the lobby, carrying a faint mix of pavement and outside sun. His paws tap quickly over the floor with the confidence of someone who has decided this building belongs to him now.