your time to, publicly. I think you’ll find your values perfectly in line with theirs.”
I typed their name into Google, clicked on their website. Their site indicated that they were four years old, but the design harkened back to 1999. It was poorly made, cheap-looking, and not even remotely mobile-friendly. They had not a single social media account.
Ten years ago, this was the kind of grassroots nonprofit I would have done cartwheels over.
Now?
“I think…” I started, jumpy again, “I think Jasmine’s going to want to match me with a place that fits me better.”
“Fits your brand better, you mean,” she said.
I bit my lip. Started to braid my hair. “That’s not bad. That’s thinking strategically, Sylvia.”
“They work to rehabilitate dogs that are especially tough—candidates for euthanasia, fighting ring dogs, dogs found in hoarding situations or who have been abused.”
I scrolled down, interest piqued. There was a display of five photos of five different dogs, all in need of a home. And they were all, well, rough-looking, to say the least.
The day I got the idea for Wild Heart I’d been walking across my college campus, oblivious that my life was about to change. It had bolted through me, igniting a hot-pink glow over my heart, a swell of inspiration I couldn’t ignore.
I stared at those dogs.
My heart went glow.
Only for a moment. Nothing more.
At one point as a child, I must have been feeding fifteen different feral cats—and they were mean, ugly things, malnourished and yowling and wild. But my sweet, hippie parents had always ensured I understood that all beings deserved love. A huge tomcat I’d named Billy Joel lived outside our house in Coconut Grove for almost ten years—he was often limping, weepy-eyed, fresh from a fight. But I loved that mean old cat. The dogs this nonprofit worked with were reminiscent of those strays.
Sylvia regarded me closely as I clicked through the site. Jasmine would hate this place. And I was ashamed to admit that, even with that little glow, the strategic side of my brain—the side that seized opportunities and craved innovation—raised a very real warning flag. Because this might be my one real shot to fix my currently spiraling reputation. It’d be naïve to ignore that reality.
“Who’s Beck Mason?” I asked, clicking through their list of employees. No pictures or bios, only their email addresses.
“The director,” she said.
I shook my head. “No, I mean who is he. His name sounds familiar.”
Her smile turned mysterious. “Beck’s parents are infamous in the city of Miami. Do you know the Miami Devils Motorcycle Club?”
A tiny lightbulb went off—of course I did. Anyone who had lived in Miami in the last twenty-five years knew that club. They were outlaws who often fought with a rival club—the South Beach Warlocks—over territory. Street fights, gun violence, drug running, wild, insane parties the police had to break up—they could be seen all over Ocean Drive, riding in packs, wearing leather jackets with a screaming devil’s skull on the back.
“His parents run that motorcycle club. Most of the extended family is involved, I believe.”
There’d once been a two-month period when I was in high school when parts of Miami were on nightly curfew—too many turf wars between the Devils and the Warlocks.
“Absolutely not,” I said, shocked. “He comes from a violent crime family?”
“Beck Mason, however, is not even remotely involved,” she replied smoothly.
“Working with a nonprofit run by a man with such a storied past is not a smart idea, Sylvia,” I said, giving her a pleading look. I kept getting the sense that she was leading me by the hand toward the decision she wanted me to make. “It doesn’t matter whether he’s involved or not. The media will see a man with a violent, criminal background regardless of whether it’s true.”
She crossed her arms gracefully. “Does it matter?”
“Does what matter?”
She lifted one shoulder. “What he might have done in his past? If he’s on the right path now, will you let something arbitrary prevent you from doing truly amazing work for a nonprofit that needs help?”
Emotionally, I was cresting the top of that rollercoaster now—and what awaited me at the bottom wasn’t fun. I shut my eyes for a moment, battling it out in my head. The glow called to me.
Fixing my reputation called to me more.
“I don’t believe the kind of reputation this man has is arbitrary. And the list Jasmine gave me contains nonprofits that are no less worthy,” I countered.
“But is their need as dire?”
I gave her a