Page 9 of Finding Gideon (Foggy Basin Season Two)

Gideon

It was my first Saturday at the clinic. The pace was slower than the rest of the week, but time still seemed to slip through my fingers.

By the time I’d finished stocking up the supply closet, half the appointments had already been and gone.

A few wagging tails, some cautious paws, and the occasional cat letting everyone know exactly how it felt about being there.

I hadn’t done anything complicated. Nothing heavy. Just steady work, easy rhythm.

Malcolm moved through it all with quiet precision—checking a patient’s eyes, adjusting a bandage, listening to a heartbeat.

Every step was measured, purposeful. He made handling the animals, talking to their owners, and keeping the room calm look so damn simple.

And maybe I kept watching because I liked working beside him.

At one point, he caught me looking. “Need something?”

“No,” I said, wiping down the counter. “Just noticing you have this… way of making things look effortless.”

His mouth curved slightly—not quite a smile, not quite a smirk. “Years of practice.”

“I’m guessing that helps the animals. And the people.”

“Exactly. Pets pick up on their owners’ nerves. If I can keep the room calm, it makes everything easier.”

It made sense. Malcolm had that grounding presence, like if the ceiling started caving in, he’d simply point to the nearest door before walking everyone through it.

The bell over the front door jingled. A woman stepped in, cradling a rabbit wrapped snug in a fleece blanket. Plump and caramel-colored, with one floppy ear and a twitching nose that looked like it was searching for a signal.

Something tightened in my throat—quick, reflexive.

“Morning,” Malcolm said. “You must be Sadie. Is this Thumper?”

“Yeah. My niece named him. Not exactly original, but it stuck.”

I hesitated a fraction too long.

“Gideon?” Malcolm glanced over his shoulder.

“Right,” I said quickly, stepping forward to help. “Cute rabbit.”

Sadie adjusted her grip. “He’s been sneezing a lot. I think it might be allergies. Or maybe his bedding?”

We stepped aside to let Sadie carry Thumper into the exam room. Malcolm motioned toward the small scale on the counter, and I set the fleece-wrapped bundle down gently. The rabbit shifted, nose twitching, as the numbers blinked to life. 5.4 pounds. Solid, warm, and—yeah—plump.

I lifted him back into my arms, his weight settling naturally against my chest. And then I really saw him.

Not just a rabbit— that rabbit. Did animals have doppelg?ngers?

Because Thumper could’ve been Rusty’s twin.

Same caramel coat, same one floppy ear. Same twitchy nose.

The recognition hit sharper this time, cutting past the earlier flicker.

My fingers curled slightly, aching with the muscle memory of another rabbit in another lifetime?—

—and just like that, I was nine again, standing behind the school dumpster with Garrett, both of us staring at the scrap of a thing, fur matted with leaves, eyes wary but hopeful.

“He’s ours,” Garrett had said, grinning like he’d just found treasure.

Garrett told me he was going to name him after a rockstar, but the reddish streak along his back sealed it—Rusty.

Mom’s rules were carved in stone: No pets. Not with her working the register at Food Mart and Dad sweating twelve-hour shifts at the mill. “Pets eat food. Pets need medicine. You want to pay a vet bill on a cashier’s tips and a millhand’s check?”

But Garrett had a way of bending rules without breaking them.

We scrounged leftover boards and chicken wire from behind Mr. Willis’s shed, built Rusty a pen behind the church down the block.

Every morning before school, we’d sneak over, breath puffing in the cold, to feed him lettuce leaves and refill his water.

Every afternoon, the light slanting gold through the sycamores, Garrett would crouch by the pen and tell Rusty about our day—about the science test we bombed, about the fight in the lunchroom, about the movie we weren’t old enough to see but would, somehow.

We kept him hidden for almost two years.

Then Rusty got sick. It started with him eating less, then sitting too still, too quiet. We didn’t have the money for a vet. We tried our best—fresh greens, warmer bedding—but it wasn’t enough. He was gone before we figured out how to help.

Even now, the memory sat heavy in my chest, like the cold from that morning had never left.

“Gideon?”

I blinked. Malcolm stood a step away, one hand braced on the counter, his eyes steady, noticing. Like he’d caught the pause I hadn’t meant to take.

“You good to hold him while I listen?” His tone was quiet, deliberate.

“Yeah.” My voice was steady enough, though something in my chest still felt tight.

I held Thumper while Malcolm set the stethoscope against his belly, listening to each breath. He nodded once, then swapped for the otoscope, angling it toward the rabbit’s ear. “You can tip him a little this way—good. Now the other ear.”

When he was done, he leaned closer to check Thumper’s nose. “Clear. No discharge.”

Malcolm ran through his advice with Sadie: switching bedding, watching for dust, trying the sample hay he handed her in a small paper packet. She thanked us and carried Thumper back out into the morning light.

The door clicked shut behind her.

“Hey,” Malcolm said, glancing over while I wiped down the table. “Are you okay?”

I kept my focus on the spray bottle, the paper towel moving in slow circles. “That rabbit… looked just like one my brother and I had when we were kids.”

A beat passed. Malcolm didn’t look away, but he didn’t press either.

“You’ve mentioned him before,” he said quietly. “Your brother.”

“Garrett. We were twins. The Raines twins, people used to call us." My voice was steady, though it didn’t feel that way. “He was the adventurous one. I was… whatever the opposite of that is. We weren’t allowed pets, which was hell for two kids who loved animals. So we got creative. Garrett once turned our treehouse into an ‘emergency clinic’—old sheets for curtains, popsicle sticks for splints, and a flashlight for a surgical lamp. Every stuffed animal we owned ended up with a bandage or a cast before he decided we were ready for the real thing.”

Malcolm’s mouth curved faintly. “That actually sounds kind of amazing.”

I gave a short laugh. “It was a mess. We didn’t know what we were doing. Garrett just… wanted to save everything with four legs and a pulse. I followed his lead. He wanted to be a vet.”

“And you?”

“I didn’t know. Still don’t, really. I just knew I wanted to be around animals. And Garrett.”

Silence stretched between us—not awkward, just weighted.

“He died almost three years ago,” I said, voice low. “Hiking accident.”

Malcolm’s nod was slow, thoughtful. “That’s rough. Losing someone who’s part of your everyday… it changes the shape of everything.”

My throat felt tight. “Yeah.”

“You two were close.”

“Yeah. He was my anchor.”

Malcolm’s gaze held mine without pity. He shifted just enough that his hand rested on the counter, close to mine—close enough I could feel the warmth of it without touching. “Then I’d bet you made one hell of a team.”

The words landed somewhere deep, loosening something I didn’t realize I’d been holding. My chest felt a fraction lighter. Not fixed. Not healed. Just… less heavy. I let out a slow breath, and for a moment, it was enough.

The bell over the front door broke the quiet, its cheerful jingle chased by a quick burst of barking.

Malcolm straightened and stepped into the hall, his voice already carrying ahead of him. “Hey, hey—you made it.”

A wiry terrier mix satin a man’s arms, tail curled and eyes sharp with curiosity.

The man had a roguish smile, scruffy jaw, and the kind of easy confidence that drew the room toward him.

Beside him stood another man—clean-cut, part in his hair, blue button-up rolled to the elbows—who looked like a very well-dressed journalist on a weekend break.

They weren’t just standing together; they were angled toward each other in that unconscious way that made you think of shared keys and coffee mugs.

Malcolm waved them over. “Gideon, this is Theo and Ronan—and their troublemaker, Pip. Guys, this is Gideon. He’s helping me out at the clinic for now.”

“Nice to meet you,” Theo said, giving me an easy grin before glancing down at Pip. “She’s been limping a bit. Might be something in her paw.”

“Kept licking at it last night,” Ronan added.

“Let’s have a look,” Malcolm said, motioning down the hall to the exam table. “Gideon, give me a hand?”

I stepped in beside him, and together we settled Pip on the table. She gave a small whine, and I reached to steady her front half while Malcolm adjusted her paw. Our hands brushed—just a flicker of contact. It shot straight up my arm, lodging somewhere under my ribs.

I should move my hand. Say something. Laugh it off. But I didn’t.

And neither did he.

Our eyes caught for the briefest second. For a heartbeat, it felt like the room narrowed to that single point of contact.

Then we pulled away. Quietly. Like it hadn’t happened.

Malcolm cleared his throat and focused on the paw. "Ah, here we go. Tiny splinter. Almost missed it."

He worked with quiet precision, his touch gentle but certain. Pip whimpered once but didn’t pull away.

Theo exhaled in relief. “She trusts you more than she trusts us.”

“Just practice,” Malcolm said, handing Pip back.

Ronan clipped the leash back on Pip. “You two should come out tonight. We’re heading to Pints ‘n Pool. Shouldn’t be too crowded.”

“Tonight?” Malcolm asked, his tone somewhere between wary and curious.

Theo grinned. “Yeah. It’s time you met more of the town. You’ve been here a year and still barely know anyone.”

Malcolm gave a quiet chuckle. “I’ve been… adjusting. Busy.”

Ronan nodded. “We get it. We were new once, too. Five years back. You reach a point where you either dive in or stay a stranger.”

Malcolm glanced at Pip, then at both of them, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Guess I’m running out of excuses, huh?”

“Pretty much,” Theo said.

“All right,” Malcolm said, his voice settling into a decision. Then he looked over at me. “You should come too. It’s a good way to meet some folks.”

I gave a noncommittal shrug. “We’ll see.”

“Bring him, Mal,” Theo said with a grin as they headed for the glass door. “You need a wingman.”

Malcolm let out an amused huff, shaking his head as Theo pushed the door open. It eased shut behind them with a soft clink, leaving the clinic quieter than it had been all morning.

Malcolm veered off toward his office, the muted creak of the chair and the faint rustle of paperwork carrying down the hall.

I drifted in the opposite direction, into the supply alcove, counting syringe packs I’d already counted twice.

The stillness pressed against my back until I couldn’t stand it anymore.

My feet moved before I had a plan.

At his doorway, I knocked once—light, almost hesitant.

He didn’t turn. “Yeah?”

“You, uh… got a sec?”

He didn’t look up right away. “Yeah.”

I stepped in. He was leaned back slightly in his chair, turning a pen between his fingers, the light from the window catching on the slope of his shoulder. Something about the stillness of him made my chest tighten—unexpected, like tripping over a step you didn’t see.

“I didn’t mean to unload on you earlier,” I said finally, my voice lower than it should have been. “With the stuff about Garrett.”

His hand stilled, though he didn’t turn right away. “You didn’t unload. You remembered someone you love. That’s not a burden.”

My throat went dry. I wasn’t used to people making space for grief without trying to fix it—or steer away from it.

Malcolm swiveled toward me, legs angled open in an easy posture. “Anyway, I liked hearing about him.”

“You did?”

“Yeah. And the Raines twins? That’s a hell of a title.”

A laugh slipped out before I could stop it. “We thought we were cool as hell with that name.”

“You probably were.” His smile was slow, warm. “You still are, Gideon.”

Something warm uncurled low in my chest, unfamiliar enough that I shifted my weight like that might shake it loose. “Anyway,” I said, glancing toward the hall, “I just wanted to say thanks.” I huffed out a breath. I so wasn’t used to having emotions I couldn’t explain.

His voice softened. “You think I’m doing you a favor, but truth is, I kind of like having you around.”

It landed simple. Uncomplicated. No agenda. And it made me want to say more, do more—but I didn’t trust myself to hide what I shouldn’t be feeling.

So I just said, “Guess I’ll go start closing up.”

His smile lingered. “Alright. See you in a bit.”