Page 5 of Finding Gideon

The doctor didn’t comment. But when I glanced up, I caught the barest twitch at the corner of his mouth before he returned to his exam.

He moved with quiet confidence, checking the dog’s limbs, spine, abdomen. Calm and steady. His touch was clinical, sure—but not unkind.

“You did the right thing bringing him in,” he said, without looking up.

I cleared my throat, that familiar tightness rising in my chest. “He looked like he'd already been ignored long enough today. Like people had seen him and just… kept going.” I let my fingers drift down the pup’s side again, grounding myself. “I couldn’t be one of them.”

The doctor met my eyes for a split second, his gaze flicking between me and the dog again, like he was weighing a decision behind deep brown eyes that seemed to see past the surface. There was professionalism, sure, but also a quiet intensity that made the air between us feel just a little thicker.

“We’ll get him taken care of. Make sure he’s comfortable.”

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. I couldn’t shake the feeling that the dog wasn’t the only one who needed care.

“Can I get your name?” he asked, his hands gently wrapping the dog’s paw.

“Gideon Raines,” I said.

He nodded once. “Dr. Malcolm Jones, but please, call me Malcolm.”

I watched the way his hands worked—deliberate and sure, no hesitation.

After a beat, he glanced up. “Do you have experience with animals?”

I let out a breath, a half-laugh escaping. “Yeah, you could say that. I’m not a vet or anything, but I’ve done my fair share.”

I shifted, glancing away for a second before looking back. “Grew up patching up every stray my brother and I could sneak past our mom and dad—peanut butter and gauze were basically our go-to first aid kit.

Why am I telling him all this?

I rubbed the back of my neck. “Plus, I spent three years studying biology in college, took some online courses in animalwelfare, and volunteered at a community shelter walking dogs and helping out. So, I know my way around a scared or hurt animal when I see one.”

That pulled the faintest twitch of a smile from Dr. Jones. “Sounds like you’ve got a good head and heart for this. Do you still do that kind of thing with your brother?”

The question knocked the breath out of me for a moment.Of course he’d ask.

“He died,” I said, too quiet. “It’s just me now.”

Malcolm’s eyes lingered on me a moment longer than before—quiet, calm, without pity. Then he nodded and turned to the counter to prepare an IV kit he’d brought into the room with him.

I watched as he snapped on a fresh pair of gloves, checked the tubing, and held the saline bag up to the light.

He didn’t say sorry. Maybe he didn’t need to. That quiet respect said enough.

“This’ll help with dehydration,” he said. “Might sting going in, but he’s already pretty out of it.”

I lowered myself next to the dog, keeping my voice low. One hand rested lightly on his neck, careful not to startle him.

“Hey, buddy,” I murmured. “This’ll help. Just hang on, alright?”

I glanced down and tried out a few names softly: “Max? Charlie? Milo?”

I shook my head with a small smile. “Nope. You’re not any of those.”

I rubbed behind his ears gently. “It’s alright, boy. You’re going to be fine. I know it sucks right now, but we’ll get through this.”

The dog gave a small grunt but didn’t move much as Malcolm found a vein and slid the needle in with practiced care. I felt thetension ripple under the dog’s fur, saw one paw twitch, but he didn’t fight it.

I kept talking softly, rubbing slow circles behind his ear. “We’ll figure it out. The name. Everything else, too.”