Page 48 of Found by the Pack

I lean against the counter across from her. “So. Memphis.”

Her mouth pulls into a faint smile. “You ever been?”

I shake my head.

“It’s… louder than here. Busier.” Sadie smiles faintly at that.

The conversation flows smoothly, and that unnerves me just a bit. It’s clear that she’s keeping secrets but I’m not one to pry them out of her. Hopefully one day I’ll learn what has her looking like she’s about to bolt, if all she’s scared of is Scott.

And hopefully I’ll be able to keep her safe when she needs me to.

She tells us about growing up with two women who never stopped moving, about murals in Memphis that still have her signature on them, about how she likes the quiet here.

Shepard tells her about New Hampshire winters, about the first time he saw the harbor frozen over. Gabe talks about the fishing crews, about how the mayor still insists on going out himself even when he doesn’t have to.

And for a while, it feels like she’s not just a stranger we pulled out of a ditch.

It feels like she’s already part of the pack.

Charlie and I hadn’t even finished cleaning up from lunch when the radio call came in—a collision on the far edge of Harbor Road. Small sedan versus a delivery truck, light damage, but the driver of the sedan had fainted behind the wheel. We got there fast, stabilized her, and transferred her to the hospital.

It’s barely twenty minutes later when we’re back at the station, pulling the rig into the bay. My gloves are still damp from the disinfectant I used to wipe down the stretcher, and the faint smell of saline and coffee lingers in the air.

Charlie’s tossing a used blanket into the laundry bin when he pauses mid-step. His head tilts toward the open bay door.

“Who the hell is that?”

I glance up from where I’m securing the oxygen tank straps.

Sadie.

She’s standing just outside the shadow line of the bay, the midday light catching the pale pink streaks in her hair.

Yesterday’s washed-out, rain-damp look is gone; today she’s in a fitted black turtleneck tucked into high-waisted dark jeans, a soft charcoal coat hanging open around her shoulders. Her boots are clean, polished.

The little flesh-colored bandage I put on her forehead is still there, just above her brow, a faint reminder of yesterday’s crash.

And damn, she looks better. A lot better. Not just healthier—more… herself.

I can feel the warmth in my chest, low and steady. I make a conscious effort to keep my expression neutral. The last thing I want is for her to catch even a whisper of how much she affects me.

“Hey,” I say, stepping toward her.

Her lips curve faintly, but there’s still a guarded edge to her eyes. She’s pressing a cold can of Coke against her palm, the metal sweating from condensation.

“That still hurting?” I nod toward her hand.

She glances down, as if she’d forgotten she was holding it there. “Yeah. A little.”

“You iced it all day?”

She nods again, then takes a small step closer. “I hope you’re not too busy, but… I wanted to come in and see if there’s any need to be concerned.”

I jerk my head toward the back. “We’ve got a private space. Come on.”

The exam room isn’t fancy—just a converted office with an exam table, a rolling stool, and a metal cabinet of supplies—but it’s quiet.

Charlie stays behind in the bay, giving us privacy. I motion for her to sit on the table and grab a clipboard.