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I don’t have Bryan’s number. But I have Henshaw’s. I dial, pressing the phone hard against my ear as I tear out of the driveway, tires kicking up gravel.
He picks up on the third ring. “Emma?”
I swerve onto the main road, wind roaring through the open windows.
“Tom, I need Bryan’s number. Now. Buddy’s sick.”
There’s a pause. Then, gruffly, “Hold on.”
A text dings through a moment later. I don’t hesitate. I call Bryan. Thankfully, he answers on the second ring.
“It’s Emma,” I say, breathless. “Buddy’s bad. Can you meet be at the vet clinic in the next town, now?”
"What?" Then, clipped, “On my way.”
It takes a little over forty minutes to get there. The clinic is old, peeling white paint, a crooked sign.
Inside, the waiting room is full, I'm sure it's because it’s the only clinic within a couple of miles radius. A terrier whining, a golden retriever licking its bandaged paw. When the receptionist sees us she immediately points to the back, and I hurry past with a grateful nod.
The doctor is already working on a hissing tabby when I rush in, Buddy cradled against my chest. Doc looks up sharply. I don’t wait for greetings.
“Paint thinner poisoning,” I say. “I induced vomiting, but he’s still lethargic.”
Doc nods, immediately clearing a space. I lower Buddy onto the exam table, heart pounding.
He hooks up an IV, checking vitals. Then, finally, he exhales.
“He’ll be okay,” Doc says. “You caught it early, kept it from getting worse.”
My knees nearly buckle. I don’t realize I’m still shaking until a new presence fills the doorway.
Bryan.
He storms in, his expression wild, his breathing sharp. His jeans are worn, his navy shirt unbuttoned at the top, his cedar scent cutting through the sterile air.
He looks at Buddy first. Then at me. His eyes flick over my drenched T-shirt, the paint smudges on my arms, the exhaustion in my stance. He steps closer, but I beat him to it.
“He’s okay,” I say quickly. “Doc said we got to him in time.”
Bryan’s chest rises, falls. His jaw tightens.
Then, softly, “Thanks.”
It’s gruff. Sincere. And for some stupid, stupid reason, it hits. Something shifts in his gaze, just for a second. Less cold, more raw and I look away.
“Just doing what needed to be done,” I say, voice steady. “It’s Buddy. Of course, I’d help.”
Doc adjusts the IV, then mutters to himself.
“Too many pets, too little me,” he sighs. “I swear, we need more than this clinic around these towns.”
Bryan’s eyes flick toward me. Does he see it? The way my fingers tighten around the exam table. The way my resolve hardens. Ocean Bay having a new clinic will definitely help, especially for faster care in emergencies.
***
The attic air is thick with dust, the scent of aged wood and old paper clinging to my clothes. The single bulb above flickers weakly, its glow barely reaching the corners of the space. Cobwebs stretch between rafters, dust motes swirl in the slanted light, and the ocean hums in the distance, steady and familiar.
Buddy trots beside me, tail wagging as he sniffs curiously at a stacks of boxes, his nose twitching in excitement. I smile, slipping a dog biscuit from my pocket and holding it out. He snatches it up eagerly, crunching loudly before snuffling through the dust again.