Page 118 of Strays
Eventually, we remember the world outside. Phones. Responsibilities. All of us have messages and missed calls from Alice and Jayme. It’s probably important, but we can’t bring ourselves to leave the nest just yet. We stay one more day, only getting up to take showers and use the bathroom, still living off protein bars and Pedialyte Sport.
The next morning, Jo finally calls Jayme, but it’s Alice who picks up.
I think my senses got sharper during the heat, because even with the phone pressed to Jo’s ear, I hear Alice perfectly. She’s been calling for three days. Shewas worried.
Jo grins and says she went into heat, like it’s something to be proud of. My brothers and I smile at each other. It’s amazing to hear her talk about it proudly, not ashamed, embracing what she is.
Jayme wants to meet, so Jo accepts Alice’s invitation to dinner.
By six, we’re trying to squeeze into the truck. When we finally manage to cram inside, it’s so uncomfortable we have to admit that it’s time to let it go. What we don’t expect is Jo, who always called the truck monstrous, to protest when we bring up selling it while we’re driving to Bridgeport.
“But there’s no point in keeping it, Jo,” Shane tells her gently. “It’s already uncomfortable, and it’s only gonna get worse from here. Leaving it to rot in the garage is just a waste.”
But she’s stubborn now, like she caught feelings for the thing.
“I’ll sell my Corolla and keep the truck,” she says, crossing her arms. “None of you can fit in my car anymore. In the truck, you aren’t comfortable, but at least you can get inside.”
We pull up in front of Alice and Jayme’s house a little past seven.
They live in a quiet part of Bridgeport, just past the busier roads, tucked into one of those tree-lined neighborhoods where every house has a small yard. There’s a tricycle tipped over near the front steps, and chalk scribbled on the walkway — stick figures, suns and a crooked rainbow that’s probably Kate’s doing.
Alice opens the door before we even knock. Inside the house, there are toys in every corner. There are stuffed animals piled on the couch, a pink blanket draped over the back of a chair, and one of those toddler play kitchens wedged in next to the real one.
I’m not used to homes like this, homes that feel like they were made for kids to be happy.
My house as a kid wasn’t like that. It was a good home, sure, but Lydia was strict about the amount of space we were allowed to take up. I could play only in the room I shared with my mother. Even Lydia’s own kids had to keep their toys in their room, packed away in chests the second they were done. No one would’ve dared to draw on her walkway with chalk.
Later, in our little Pack House 144 at the Strays Project, we didn’t have toys at all, just a TV and a game console. We weren’t allowed to move anything an inch out of place. Everything had a designated spot, planned and standardized. The research team made sure every Pack House was exactly the same. No personalization, no risk of bias, just clean data. The air always smelled good, but it wasn’t real. It came from the devices on the wall, not like the smell of a real home.
Then, in the force, I saw plenty of human homes with kids, but most of them weren’t like this either. I saw places no child should ever grow up in.
Now, standing in this house, I can’t stop thinking about what our own home might look like when we have kids. When they’re running around, making messes, leaving trails of laughter and crayons and chaos behind them.
Jo takes it in stride, but I can see it in my brothers’ faces: the awe, the hope. I know they’re thinking what I’m thinking. We’ll never pressure her, but fuck, I think I’ll explode the day her heat isn’t just about need and pleasure anymore, but about trying for our baby too.
Despite all the toys, the house is silent. Kate’s usually a storm when she visits, so when Alice explains she’s spending the night with her grandmother, the quiet makes sense.
We eat with soft conversation, just small talk about traffic and Alice’s ongoing feud with the neighbor whose dog keeps pooping on her lawn.
After dinner, Alice scoops up the plates with a quick word about giving us some privacy. Jayme heads upstairs, and a minute later he comes back down with a leather folder.
“I made contact with the MAB’s legal office,” he says, sitting back on the table. “They did assign someone to you: Thomas Renner. Civil-military trial specialist. Former JAG. Now works only on federal liability cases.”
Jay raises a brow. “So why haven’t we heard from him?”
“Because the MAB had to fight to keep him,” Jayme replies.
We all go still.
“The DoD got wind they were assigning him to your case and started pressuring his firm. Indirect stuff. They pulled a few contracts, floated incentives if he turned it down and made himself available for oversight roles instead.”
I stare at him. “They tried to flip him?”
“Not directly. Not stupidly. But enough to stall the process,” Jayme replies.
He leans forward. “The MAB held the line. They waited for Renner to finish the case he was already on. In the meantime, they sweetened the deal, promised his firm future contracts, made it clear this wasn’t just a case; it was about defending Special Operations autonomy.”
“And now?” I ask.
