27. April 3, Sunday #3
“Hello?” she called, voice thin.
The shape resolved as she got closer.
A dog.
He lay half-curled against her front tire like he’d crawled there on purpose. His coat was filthy and too thin for winter, one hind leg bent wrong. His ribs stood out under patchy fur.
Fido.
Relief and horror collided.
“Oh, baby,” she breathed, dropping her purse with a clatter. “Oh, sweetheart…”
At the sound of her voice, one ear twitched. He lifted his head a few inches and managed a low, warning growl more reflex than threat.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” she said automatically, crouching. “It’s just me. I won’t hurt you.”
She edged closer, staying low. His eyes tracked her. He didn’t show teeth. His head sagged back down onto something soft and dark beneath his jaw.
A glove.
Thick black winter leather. Men’s. Expensive.
Her stomach flipped.
She knew it instantly. The frayed bit at the base of the thumb where Ilya always worried the seam when he was stressed.
Ilya’s. And Fido carried it with him.
Grief and pity and some hotter, sharper emotion burned up her throat.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Okay. I’m gonna help you.”
She moved to the back of her car and popped her trunk with shaking hands. Zoey dug through the chaos.
Blanket.
Reusable bag.
Ilya’s hoodie she’d stolen because it was soft and smelled like him. That one nearly undid her.
She grabbed the blanket and hoodie, opened the back door, and hurried back.
Fido tensed when she approached, but he didn’t lunge. Probably couldn’t.
“Hey, handsome,” she murmured, lowering carefully to her knees. “I know. This sucks. I’m sorry. You picked the wrong hockey team to haunt if you didn’t want overbearing nurse energy, though. You were smart to pick me. The guys would’ve been completely dramatic about this.”
Her voice almost snagged, but she forced it steady.
She spread the blanket in front of him, then slowly eased the folded hoodie under his head in place of the glove. He let her, barely. A small whimper escaped him.
“Good boy,” she crooned. “So good. I know. I’m sorry.”
She tucked the glove into the crook of his neck. His nose twitched. He relaxed by a fraction.
Working inch by careful inch, she slid the blanket under his body, trying not to jostle the bad leg. Every tiny movement earned another pained sound. When she pulled her hands out from under him, she noticed blood staining her palms and the sleeves of her jacket.
Shit.
“Almost there,” she whispered, heart pounding. “No biting, okay? I bruise easy.”
Once she had enough leverage, she braced her feet and lifted.
Fido was all lanky limbs and dead weight, heavier than he looked. Her arms shook. Her back protested. Stress sweat prickled at her spine despite the cold.
“Up we go, buddy,” she grunted, staggering to the back door. “This is not one of the normal muscle groups I exercise. Don’t judge me. Work with me here.”
She got him into the backseat in a graceless slide, nearly climbing in after him. He gave one sharp bark when the injured leg bumped the frame, then went still again, sides heaving.
She tucked the blanket around him as best she could, settled the hoodie under his head, and left the glove by his nose. He latched onto it weakly with his teeth, like a child clutching a security blanket.
“Good boy,” she whispered, breathless. “Stay down. Hold on. Don’t die.”
She slammed the door, snatched up her purse, and slid behind the wheel.
Her phone buzzed in the bottom of it, muffled and insistent.
Kayla? Babs? Ilya?
She couldn’t answer it.
Not now.
She jammed the key into the ignition, clumsily used her phone’s internet to find the nearest emergency vet and jabbed at the phone icon.
Zoey pulled out of the space as a loud ringing came from her car’s speakers.
In the rearview mirror, Fido was a dark, curled shape under the blanket, chest rising too fast, head resting against Ilya’s glove.
A woman answered on the second ring. “Springfield Emergency Veterinary Hospital.”
“I found an injured dog,” Zoey said, voice shaking as she took the ramp out of the garage. “Possible broken leg, bleeding, very thin, conscious but lethargic. I’m about fifteen minutes away.”
“Do not give food or water,” the woman instructed. “Keep him warm and as still as possible. If he becomes unconscious or starts breathing irregularly, note the time. Are you okay to drive?”
Zoey looked at the road.
Christian on a stretcher.
Ilya choosing his fear over her.
Nina turning her job into a risk calculation.
Now a bleeding dog in her backseat, clinging to the glove of the man who had loved him from a distance and still believed distance was protection.
No. No, she wasn't okay to drive.
Then she swallowed hard and corrected herself, because Fido needed more than her breaking apart. “Yes. I’m fine.”
The arena shrank behind her as she merged into the thin trickle of late-night traffic.
Everyone she loved, everything she was trying to build—a family, a career, a life that didn’t require her to disappear—felt like it was slipping away.
She tightened her grip on the wheel and kept going.