Page 2 of Finding Gideon (Foggy Basin Season Two)

“We’re closed for the day.” His eyes flick to the dog. “But come on in.”

I shifted the dog higher against my chest. “Thank you. He’s not mine—I just found him on the side of the road. He needs help.”

Something in his expression softened, though his tone stayed even. “Then you’re in the right place.”

He stepped aside, holding the door open.

The air-conditioning inside hit like a blessing. My shirt clung to me in cold shock as I stepped inside. The clinic smelled faintly of antiseptic and lavender—clean, calm, with soft lighting that made it feel more like a spa than a place where animals got poked with needles.

He gave a slight nod toward the hallway. “The exam room’s down the hall—first door on the left. I’ll be in shortly with supplies. Just get him settled on the table in there.”

The soft click of my shoes on the tiled floor echoed through the quiet clinic. It was cozy, small but well-organized, with shelves of supplies lining the walls and framed pictures of animals scattered like they were part of the family.

I carefully laid the dog down on the exam table. He whimpered softly, a little anxious but still trusting, and I reached out to gently pet his head before stepping back.

The man tugged on a pair of gloves, his movements fluid, practiced. “Was he wearing a collar or a tag when you found him?” he asked, his voice professional but not detached.

I paused for a beat, looking at the scrappy little guy. His weary eyes met mine, and something about him just… clicked. “No,” I said, my voice soft.

The vet nodded and gently lifted the dog’s lip to check his gums and teeth. “Labrador-Chow mix, I’d say. Gums look a bit dry—mild dehydration, probably. And he’s not a pup—maybe two or three years old.”

He crouched and glanced down at the dog’s paws. “Some cuts and abrasions on his pads—likely from walking on asphalt.”

He reached for a small handheld scanner and slowly ran it over the dog’s shoulder. The device beeped once, then nothing. He clicked it off and on again, muttering, “No chip.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “So… no owner.”

“Not officially,” he said, glancing up. “Sometimes people forget to register them. Or they don’t bother.”

I looked down at the scruffy little guy curled on the table. Dogs like this rarely come with easy answers. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

The doctor tilted his head. “Are you thinking of keeping him?”

The question caught me off guard. I rubbed the back of my neck. “I wouldn't exactly say I’ve got a place to keep myself right now.”

Not something I planned to mention to a guy I just met.

I looked down at the dog. “But he deserves better than the road.”

The doctor didn’t say anything at first. Just watched me with those dark, quietly perceptive eyes.

I cleared my throat and looked back at the pup. “And he deserves a name. Can’t keep calling him ‘the dog.’”

The man cracked the faintest smile. “You just met him.”

“Long enough,” I muttered, then squinted down at him. “He looks like a… I don’t know. Rusty?”

The dog gave a tiny huff—almost like he disapproved.

I raised an eyebrow. “Okay, not Rusty.”

“Try again,” the vet said, now checking a rear paw but clearly listening.

“Alright. What about… Lucky?”

The vet snorted, the sound warm. “Bit on the nose.”

“I like irony.”

The dog shifted on the table and gave my hand a small lick, and that was it. I was gone. “Okay, not Lucky either. We’ll figure it out,” I murmured, brushing a hand down his side. “We’ve got time.”

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 animal welfare, 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 the tension 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.”

Once the IV line was secured, the doctor taped it down and clipped the bag to a metal stand nearby. He checked the flow, adjusted the rate.

“He’ll need to stay the night,” he said, giving the line one last inspection. “Maybe longer. I want to monitor him—make sure there’s nothing we missed.”

I nodded, hand now on the dog’s side, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breathing. “Makes sense.”

I reached for my wallet, hesitating as I opened it. The few bills inside looked especially sad in the fluorescent light. I pulled out a wrinkled twenty.

He glanced at it, then at me. His expression didn’t change, but he didn’t reach for the money either.

“I can offer you the lowest rate we have,” he said evenly. “But even that’s more than what you’ve got.”

I cleared my throat. “I can come back. Work off the rest. Or—whatever you need. I’ll figure something out.”

He was quiet a moment, then asked, “Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?”

I hesitated. “My truck’s a little ways from here,” I said, trying to keep my voice casual. “She gave up earlier. Was planning to crash inside.”

Malcolm considered that, then said, “I live behind the clinic—in a modest place. Got a guest room set up with a proper bed, some clean linens, a fan to keep the air moving, and enough space to be comfortable. Nothing fancy, but it’s home.”

I stared at him, caught between gratitude and disbelief. “You’re offering to let me stay?”

“For the night,” he said, still firm but not unkind. “You’ll have some privacy, and you’ll be safe. And I’ll feel better knowing you’re not out there in a truck while we’re monitoring the dog.”

Before I could answer, he unhooked the IV stand from the wall and began wheeling it slowly toward a door at the back. “Let’s get him settled in the recovery room,” he said.

I slid my arms carefully under the dog, mindful of the line taped to his leg. He stirred but didn’t resist, his head resting weakly against my chest.

I walked alongside Malcolm, who guided the IV stand beside us, making sure the tubing stayed clear.

The room we entered was quiet, the air cooler here, lined with clean enclosures of different sizes.

I eased the dog down onto a thick padded mat in one of the larger spaces, adjusting his body so the line wouldn’t catch.

He let out a soft sigh and curled up, eyes half-closed.

“He’ll be fine here,” Malcolm said, closing the kennel door gently.

I nodded, still glancing back at him as Malcolm straightened.

“Come on,” he said, already heading toward the back hallway. “I’ll show you the room.”