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that on the outside it still looked like an old warehouse, although what had been the loading dock area was now fenced and turned into a dog run.
    The kennels were at one end of the building, the clinic at the other end, so that the smells of sick animals and chemicals were kept away from the adoption areas. In between there was a reception area, and behind that was what remained of the building, split into two areas by a Plexiglas wall inserted floor to ceiling, the remaining space filled with old sofas and remnant carpets, and climbing structures for the cats, where humans met with animals and scoped each other out.
    LifeHouse was certified by the state to house twenty dogs and up to thirty cats. They’d been near or at capacity since they opened their doors, proving that the founders had been right: there had been a real need in the community.
    The shelter opened early in the morning so that volunteers could come in to care for the animals, but visitors weren’t allowed until much later. According to the sign by the front door, open adoption hours were from noon to 5 p.m., five days a week, Wednesday through Sunday.
    At 4:30 that afternoon, the shelter was filled with light and activity. There were humans bustling about, cats sprawling and prowling, dogs being exercised in the fenced courtyard off the parking lot or wandering freely in the meeting areas, being socialized with each other. The receptionist at the front desk monitored the humans as they arrived, while volunteers kept an eye on the animals. A family with two preteen children were in one of the socialization rooms, sitting on the carpeted floor and letting kittens tumble over them, waiting for the right one to show itself.
    At 5 p.m., the shelter’s doors closed to the public, andthen the slow shutdown began as the animals were fed and exercised one last time, and then the dogs were placed in their kennels for the night, the cats rounded up and placed in their own cages. The sounds of barking and the patter of paws on floors and endless scratch-scratch of claws on carpeted surfaces faded, the murmur of human voices slowing likewise as the volunteers ended their shift and went home.
    At the other end of the building, in the clinic, the vet tech made final rounds, ensuring all the cases were locked and equipment put away. There was only one dog in need of care that night, a new arrival still in twenty-four-hour isolation before being let into the general population. The tech paused to give the older hound mix an affectionate ear-pull and make sure that he was comfortable before turning off the lights and locking up.
    At 8 p.m., the lights were out all over the shelter, pale red emergency lights glowing in each hallway, reflecting off linoleum floors and metal fire doors.
    An occasional bark or whimper came from the canine quarters and was answered by another, then most of the animals, knowing the routine, settled down to sleep. Pale red and yellow lights shone through the windows, alarms activated on every door and window. The security company’s patrol started after 10 p.m., swinging by the building twice an hour to pass a flashlight beam through the parking lot and make sure that there were no disturbances.
    A little after midnight, a noise broke the silence, a low, unhappy yowl, followed by something else less identifiable, then the sound of heavy thumps. Throughout theshelter, heads lifted, ears picked up, and low whines rose from throats. No barks, no howls, nothing that might draw attention to themselves, merely the sound of anxious worry, waiting.
    If the security guard heard them during his pass, concrete walls being no barrier to a determined dog’s voice, he didn’t react; one howl was much like another, and the alarms were unchanged, no sign of activity outside the walls. His job was to prevent disturbances from the outside, not to investigate possible disturbances within.
    He never considered the thought that someone might have