Page 15 of Finding Gideon

I made some noise that could pass for a laugh and promised to call her later. When I hung up, the words still echoed.

Don’t get too attached.

They sat heavier than I wanted to admit.

I turned back to the screen, trying to refocus.

Chapter 6

Gideon

A week at Malcolm’s place had gone by faster than I’d expected.

Seven mornings of waking to the hum of the clinic next door, and seven nights of falling asleep with the faint scent of antiseptic and cedar still clinging to my hands. In that time, I’d figured out which drawers in the supply room stuck if you pulled them wrong, where Malcolm kept the spare coffee filters, and that he talked to every animal like it was the only one in the world—even the ones trying to take a chunk out of him.

Warm weight pressed against my ankle.

I cracked an eye open to find two brown ears twitching above the edge of the blanket. At some point in the night, the pup had claimed the foot of the bed. I didn’t remember letting him up, but then again, I didn’t remember much after my head hit the pillow.

“Hey, stowaway,” I mumbled, shifting onto my side.

He stretched with a groan far too big for his medium-sized frame, one paw reaching toward me before flopping halfway, like the effort wasn’t worth it. Yesterday afternoon, Malcolm had finally cleared him to leave the clinic, and now he was here—less breakable than when I’d found him. His belly was rounder, hiseyes brighter. Still pink and patchy where the fur hadn’t grown back in, but healing. A full recovery was just a matter of time.

“You’re not supposed to be up here,” I said, nudging him with my foot.

He made a sound that was half-yawn, half-huff, and curled right back into the blankets.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and sat for a moment, letting my eyes adjust to the thin gray light sneaking in around the curtain edges. Too early for most sane people, but I’d never been a great sleeper.

“You still need a name,” I said, standing. His ears twitched. “Tried Moose yesterday, remember? Didn’t fit. And you’re definitely not a Buddy.”

I rubbed the back of my neck as I headed to the bathroom. By the time I came back, pulling on jeans, he’d dragged a fleece sock across the bed and was chewing the toe like it owed him money.

“What about Finn?” I offered. “No? Too clean-cut?”

He ignored me completely.

“I don’t know what you are,” I muttered, kneeling by the food dish in the corner. I poured kibble, the rattle of it loud in the quiet room.

The dog hopped down from the bed, landed with a clumsy thump, and dove into the bowl like he hadn’t eaten in years.

It hit me then—quiet and sudden, like pressing on an old bruise. Garrett would’ve had a name ready on day one. He’d have looked up the meaning, probably picked something mythological, and sold me on it even if it didn’t fit. He was good at that—good at making anything sound like the right choice.

My throat tightened.

Almost three years gone, and I still couldn’t picture him without hearing Mom’s voice in the background—Garrett this, Garrett that. Don’t know what I’d do without Garrett.

It didn’t matter that we were identical. He was the one everyone saw.

But he’d always seen me.

I wonder what you’d be doing now. Saving the world, probably. Or chasing the next adventure.

I shook the thought off and ran a hand through my hair. It didn’t help. Grief never knocked. It slipped in sideways, settled in your ribs, and waited you out.

The dog sneezed—loud enough to startle himself—then looked at me with those too-big ears and that expectant stare.

“Gremlin?” I tried. “Any better?”