Page 73 of Don't Shoot Me Santa

Then came Blackwell, perfectly placed beside the twinkling lights and a cardboard donation box, his voice polished and ready as the camera rolled.

“This time of year reminds us that no one should be alone. At Pawsitive Futures and here at the shelter, we believe companionship saves lives. Whether it comes on two legs orfour.” He smiled, eyes appropriately earnest. “Tonight, it’s not about where someone’s been. But where they go next, and who’s waiting for them when they get there. With your help, we can keep opening doors, offering hope, and reminding every soul, human or canine, they still matter.”

He signed off with a gentle pat to the Labrador’s head and Aaron stood off to the side, arms folded, watching the whole thing with faint cynicism. But he had to admit, the man could sell a cause. And as the camera panned out, Chaplain Wynter stepped into the frame, his cassock catching the light, hands folded as if he’d been waiting for his cue. Blackwell turned towards him with a politician’s smile, and they met at centre stage for the practiced gesture of a handshake.

“The secular and the spiritual,” Wynter said with a chuckle, loud enough for the microphone. “Two halves of the same heart. What we offer here isn’t just shelter or sustenance. It’s dignity. Recognition. A reminder that no one is beyond grace.” He glanced towards the dogs, then to the camera. “And sometimes, the purest love walks in on four legs and doesn’t ask questions.”

Blackwell gave the camera his best benevolent nod. “Connection and second chances. That’s what Christmas means to both our charities.”

Aaron rolled his eyes. Subtle, but not subtle enough that Chaos didn’t glance up at him. The golden retriever shifted beside his leg as if sensing the rising static in Aaron’s chest. He glanced away. Over to the Christmas tree. Not a real one like the one he and Kenny had pulled out of the ground and made their own. But a fake one. Borrowed. Donated. And crouched low beside that sad, lopsided tree, half-swallowed by tinsel and shadow, sat a girl. The puppy jumping up at her whileJonathon tried to pull it off.

“Should we rescue her?” Aaron asked Choas, watching Jonathon crouch in front of the girl and try to catch the puppy.

The girl was laughing but Aaron could sense more beneath her. Small frame. Hollow cheeks. Hoodie sleeves too long. Skirt barely covering bruised bare legs. She couldn’t have been older than fifteen. Definitely shouldn’t be here. Not at a shelter. Not tonight. She should’ve been anywhere else. A living room with a tree that wasn’t plastic with someone’s worn-out arms around her. Even a half-decent foster home. A halfway house, at the very least. Somewhere with rules and walls and a bed that didn’t fold up when the lights went off.

So when Jonathon finally got the puppy away and moved back over to somewhere else, Aaron clucked his tongue to Chaos and made his way over.

“Hey.” He kept his voice level. Calm. Measured. Kenny’s voice, really. Developed through osmosis and borrowed for situations like this. “You like dogs?”

Her smile barely surfaced, but she nodded, reaching the back of her hand for Chaos to sniff. He did, leaning into her touch, and she stroked him as if he was the first safe thing she’d touched in weeks. As if he steadied her.

Aaron knew what that was like.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Skye.” She pushed her hair back behind her ear as her hood slipped. “She/her.”

Aaron nodded. “Got it.” He scratched under Chaos’s chin, who huffed and leaned into the touch. “I’m Aaron. This is Chaos. And, no offence, seriously, but you look young.”

Skye said nothing.

“I mean… young enough, you should be home right now. Somewhere warm. That doesn’t smell like desperation dressed in tinsel.”

“I’m eighteen.”

“You’re not.”

That got a pause. Something shifted in her posture. Not fear. Closer to recognition.

“If I say I’m eighteen, they let me stay. Give me food. A place to sleep.”

“And if you tell them the truth…”

“They send me back.”

“Yeah. I know.”

He’d said the same once. Lied about his age to slip into places he had no business being. Foster care. Curfews. The wrong man. The wrong flat. The night he stopped pretending safety was something the system could give.

The memory made his stomach turn. He looked away. “It’s shit. But I get it.”

Chaos licked Skye’s knee, tail thumping once. She let out the faintest laugh and it cracked something open in him. A hairline fracture, but enough to keep him there, crouched beside her longer than he should’ve.

Across the room, Wynter’s voice rose over the background noise, warm and ringing like church bells dipped in syrup. “We’ve set up a grotto for the run-up to Christmas. Come see Santa! He’s got gifts for all you good boys and girls.”

Skye snorted. “I was never a very good boy,” she muttered, more to herself than him. “So I stopped trying.”

Aaron turned to her, momentary stilled by quiet truth of that. The weight packed inside. And because of that honesty, Aaron decided to give a little of his own.