Page 17

My chest tightens. The rational side of me says it’s nothing. But my gut? It twists.
I grab my keys and fire off a text to Nate. “Marina. Now.” Because I need air. I need distraction. And I need to stop my wayward thoughts about Emma Greene.
Chapter five
Emma
The dripping faucet is going to drive me insane. I grip the wrench harder, twisting it against the rusted pipe with every ounce of frustration I have left. Creak. Splash!
A cold jet of water sprays my face, drenching my T-shirt. “Ugh!”
I slam the wrench onto the counter, pressing my palms against my soaked jeans, glaring at the faucet like it personally wronged me. It kind of has. The house is falling apart, and my savings? It’s falling apart faster.
I eye the notebook on the counter where I’ve been tracking every dollar that I have left. The numbers are bad. The plumber’s estimate from two days ago is circled in red, money I can’t afford to spend, not unless I want to starve for the next month.
So, fixing it myself? It’s the only option. And failing at fixing it? My second full-time job, apparently.
I grab a rag, wringing it out before tossing it toward the trash bag I filled earlier. I need to get rid of all this mess, and then I’ll try again.
Maybe. I bundle up the soaked rags, open the door, and step outside. The ocean air is crisp, cutting through the warm morning sun. The seagulls screech overhead, the scent of salt thick in the wind.
And then, I see him. Buddy.
The only one who has not made me feel like I'm living here alone. He has been my companion for the past few days. However, today he doesn't look his usual self.
That's when I see it. He’s slumped near the trash bins, his tail motionless, his breathing ragged.
My heart lurches. I drop the bag, rushing toward him.
“Buddy?”
He doesn’t perk up. Doesn’t wag his tail. Just blinks at me slowly, his eyes dull.
No. No, no, no.
I kneel beside him, running my hands over his body, feeling for any swelling, tenderness, or signs of pain. His belly feels bloated. Soft, but not normal.
My mind snaps, something is wrong. This could be anything, something he ate, a toxin, a reaction. My stomach knots. The house is old, filled with peeling paint, old chemicals, maybe even rat poison left behind.
Think, Emma.
Hydrogen peroxide. If he ingested something toxic, I need to get it out.
I spring to my feet, darting back inside and rifling through my bag. I always carry some, force of habit after years of emergency vet cases in the city.
Back outside, I tilt his muzzle gently. “Come on, big guy,” I murmur, measuring out a teaspoon and easing it into his mouth. Buddy whines but swallows.
“Just a little more,” I coax. “It’ll help, I promise.”
Seconds feel like forever. And then he gags. And vomits. I sag with relief.
It’s greenish. I scan the mess quickly, spotting flecks of what looks like paint chips. Oh no. That must be it. Paint thinner residue.
He’s still breathing heavily, but he looks slightly more alert. That buys me time. But he needs more than this.
I scoop him up, his body heavy in my arms. His weight is solid all sixty pounds of warm, familiar fur. My arms burn, but I push through it, stumbling toward my beat-up hatchback.
The next town has an animal clinic. It’s our only option since there isn't a clinic here. I lower him into the passenger seat, then fumble for my phone with trembling hands.