She was dressed for a day on the job in faded jeans and a V-neck tee that was the color of orange sherbet. It read ADOPT, except that there was an impression of a dog paw in the middle instead of an O.
“I wouldn’t mind seeing everything,” she said, watching two young guys Rob had introduced at the start of the tour rolling a crate behind the blocked-from-view partition after bringing it in through a side door. “You’re getting more dogs this morning? Do they all start back there, and once you evaluate them, you bring the ones you’re ready to send out up here?”
One side of Rob’s mouth pulled up into a half smile, half grimace. “That was a string of questions. Let’s see. No new animals are coming in until this evening. The pit my guys are rolling back was in surgery yesterday. A couple local vets have volunteered their services. And right now, it’s triage. They’re helping the ones that can benefit most from the immediacy of surgery. Some of the guys back there were injured a while ago, and any surgery they end up getting will be more reconstructive in nature.” He tapped his fingers against his temple and gave a light shake of his head. “Come on, if you want. I’ll let you see.”
Kurt fell to the back as they headed toward the partitions, a wave of guilt passing over him. After seeing Rob’s hesitation, he knew it wasn’t going to be good. He could stomach it, and he suspected Fidel could too, but he was fairly certain Kelsey was going to end up crying, throwing up, or both.
* * *
When Kelsey was little, Chaz and Brian, her brothers, were always confiscating the TV to watch horror movies. Because horror movies kept her awake at night, she’d get grounded if she was caught in the family room while they were on. But when her mom was out shopping or busy with yard work, there were still opportunities to catch a few minutes. Kelsey’d watch the gore until her stomach started to roll and bounce, and she knew it was time to leave the room.
This morning her stomach did neither. She made it past the first three crates—the malamute with a missing front leg, the mastiff pocked with more old scars than brindles, and a Great Dane mix missing most of an ear. She was trying so hard not to cry that she wasn’t even thinking about her stomach.
By then, Rob’s two workers had coaxed dog number four, a pit bull, out of his crate and were offering him a bit of water now that the sedation from yesterday’s surgery was worn off. She saw the dog first from behind. He was leashed and wearing a bright-blue collar. He had a fairly lithe build for a pit bull, was very muscular, and the guy holding his leash was talking in low, easy words.
Their small group walked around the dog in a wide, respectful arc while Rob reminded them how these dogs gave everything that was asked of them, especially the pit bulls. How they never stopped fighting until they absolutely couldn’t.
And then the dog turned to face them. For a couple of seconds, Kelsey could only blink, waiting for her trick vision to clear. It didn’t. The vanilla latte she savored on the way over became a hazard as her stomach pitched wickedly.
It was impossible. No animal could have been hurt like that and still be walking around. Still be interested in drinking water. She had to blink to realize it wasn’t a fuzzy rose tattoo on his left shoulder, but a thick circle of stitches. There were other, smaller patches on his neck. But the hardest to see was his face. The right side was fine, but the left side was a bustling city road map of stitches. From where she stood, it looked as if the eye was stitched shut. His left jowl was a jagged mess, almost as if he was giving their group a mocking smile. As the dog studied them, a wet, pink tongue flicked out, brushing over his nose, over the stitches perforating his jowl.
Kelsey’s blood raced into her stomach, leaving her dangerously light-headed. With an odd sense of disconnection, she felt her body sway in a circle, as if she were warming up in yoga class. A strong hand closed underneath her arm, keeping her upright.
It was thoughtful of Fidel to help her. To understand.
Only he’s on the other side of Rob.
Thoughts circled slowly, as though they were trapped in fuzzy cotton. Racing fast ahead of them was her unsettled stomach. All she had time to do was double over as her latte reintroduced itself. Her vision was too pinpricked to be sure, but the liquid was probably splashing atop her shoes. And, she feared, the boots of the hot soldier with the accusing stare.
The one keeping her upright.
Later, when she was home buried under the covers, she’d probably be humiliated. Right now, she was too distressed to give it much thought. She stayed doubled over until she was certain the nausea had passed.
The guy—curt Kurt, she’d thought earlier from the clipped way he carried out his end of the conversation—neither cussed nor backed away. He stood beside her, holding her arm. The fuzzy cotton in her head cleared, and her knees strengthened. She stood up, wiping her mouth, and waving him off with a “thanks.”
She shot Fidel a pleading glance. Even under his brown skin, it was obvious he was blushing. Her first thought was that he was embarrassed by her. Then, knowing Fidel, she understood it was more likely because he hadn’t been the one who’d noticed she was about to faint and stepped in to help her.
“I’m sorry,” she managed, hardly daring a glance Kurt’s way. “I’m fine now.”
Fidel stepped forward. “If you have a mop, I’ll clean it up.”
“No, it’s fine,” Rob said. “I should’ve known better. These things take getting