3. Luna
Chapter 3
Luna
I hurry down the sidewalk with Paco clutched against my chest. His breathing is coming in short, gasping honks that vibrate his tiny body, each one sending a spike of panic through me.
"Shh," I whisper as his little rib cage heaves with each labored breath. Abuela will be devastated if anything happens to her precious companion.
Paco releases a harsh, honking cough, and I pick up my pace, checking street signs until I spot the Wraithport Animal Clinic—a small building with a painted paw print on the window and a sign promising "Compassionate Care for All Pets."
The bell above the door jingles as I enter. Inside, the waiting room is blessedly empty except for a young woman at the reception desk. The space smells of antiseptic and pet shampoo, with walls covered in posters about heartworm prevention and dental care. She looks up as I enter, her smile immediately faltering when she sees Paco's condition.
“My dog—he needs help," I say, my voice tight with worry. "He's having trouble breathing."
The receptionist's expression softens. "Let me get the vet tech. She can take a look right away."
I sink into a chair, gently stroking Paco’s head while my mind races through calculations I've already done a hundred times. Payday isn’t until Friday. We can live on beans and rice to stretch our budget.
“Hi there, I’m Sophie.” I look up to see a blonde woman in scrubs. “Come on back and let's see what's going on with this little one."
I follow her to an exam room, placing Paco on the metal table. The dog's eyes are glassy, and as I carefully unwrap him, he makes another honking gasp that seems to rattle his entire body.
"How long has he been breathing like this?" Sophie asks, running gentle hands over Paco’s tiny frame, her expression concerned but professional.
"It started a few days ago, but it's much worse today. He was up all night." My own voice sounds foreign to my ears, stretched thin with exhaustion and worry. “He's thirteen years old. My abuela has had him since he was a puppy. We brought him all the way from Oaxaca."
I bite my lip, wishing I hadn't mentioned our hometown. It's second nature to be guarded about anything that might reveal our status.
Sophie nods, listening to Paco’s chest with a stethoscope before taking his temperature. When she fits an oxygen mask over his tiny face, my heart clenches at the sight, and I press my hand to my mouth to stifle a sob.
What if I’m too late? What if I should have brought him in at the first sign of trouble, instead of hoping it would pass?
I try to read Sophie’s expression. "Is he?—?"
“I’m stabilizing him," Sophie says, her voice gentle but direct. "Paco has what we call tracheal collapse—it's fairly common in small breeds like Chihuahuas, especially as they age. His trachea—his windpipe—has weakened, and it's partially collapsing when he breathes, causing that honking sound."
"Can you fix it?"
"There are options. In mild cases, medication can help manage symptoms—anti-inflammatories, cough suppressants, sometimes bronchodilators. In severe cases, we might consider a stent, which is a surgical option."
My stomach drops. Surgery sounds expensive and the landlord's warning echoes in my mind—"One more late payment and you're out." But this little dog has been Abuela’s companion through everything—the brutal death of my parents, crossing the border, trying to settle in a new country… Through it all, Paco has been by her side—a tiny guardian with the heart of a lion.
Sophie continues, "Based on his age and the progression of symptoms, I recommend we start with the medication approach. We can give him an injection today to reduce the inflammation, then send you home with tablets. You'll need to be careful about using a harness instead of a collar, keeping him at a healthy weight, and avoiding situations that might trigger coughing."
I swallow hard. "How...how much will that cost?"
The sympathy in Sophie's eyes tells me everything before she speaks. "For the full treatment, including medication to take home, we're looking at around $400."
The room seems to tilt slightly. Vaguely I hear the door open behind me, but I pay it little mind, too rattled about the cost of treatment. Four hundred dollars might as well be four million. My hands begin to tremble.
“Um… Is there anything less expensive we can do?" I ask, hating how my voice cracks.
Sophie hesitates. “Well?—”
“Or would it be possible to make payments? Do you have any kind of payment plans?" I ask, desperately clinging to hope.
Behind me, a deep voice rumbles through the small room. "Sorry, Soph. Didn't know you were with a patient."
Sophie waves her hand in the air. "No problem, Saint. Just set those in the storage room."
Curious, I turn to look over my shoulder and my heart nearly stops. The blood rushes from my face then surges back with enough force to make me dizzy.
He fills the doorway like he was made for it—broad shoulders stretching the fabric of a black thermal shirt, powerful arms laden with boxes of medical supplies, dark eyes that latch onto mine instantly. The biker. The man who's haunted my thoughts since our brief encounter yesterday.
Our gazes lock, and that same electric current from last night hums between us, stronger now in the confined space. Heat rises to my cheeks, spreads down my neck, and culminates in butterflies dancing in my lower belly. My mouth goes dry, and I'm suddenly hyperaware of my shabby clothes, my tired face, my vulnerability.
"Preciosa," he says, the endearment rolling off his tongue with natural ease. The deep timbre of his voice sends a delicious shiver down my spine.
Sophie looks between us, eyebrows raised in silent question, a smile tugging at her lips.
"We've met before," I explain hastily, not wanting her to think—what? That a man like him would have any real connection to a woman like me? "Briefly. Last night."
Instead of leaving with the supplies, Saint steps fully into the room. Despite his intimidating appearance—the visible edges of tattoos at his neckline, the leather vest with its "Sergeant at Arms" patch, the outline of what must be a gun beneath his shirt—he moves with a controlled grace that reminds me of the big cats at the zoo Papá took me to as a child. Powerful, dangerous, beautiful.
Sophie’s mouth is open. She’s saying something about the veterinary clinic’s policy of payment in full up front, but my mind has turned to mush. Her eyes shift to a spot behind me. Is he still there? I’m afraid to look, but I have to know.
I spare a glance over my shoulder again.
Again, his eyes meet mine, his intense gaze unwavering. I feel naked under that stare, as if he can see every worry, every fear, every secret I harbor.
“’Scuse us a minute.” His eyes flick from me to Sophie then back to me. “I need to talk to Sophie,” he says pointedly. “It can’t wait.”
Sophie’s expression changes subtly, a flash of surprise followed by understanding. "I'll be right back.”
Several minutes later, Sophie returns, her features carefully neutral but her eyes sparkling with something that looks like suppressed excitement. "Good news, Ms. Martinez. We have a special program for cases like yours—a fund set up by anonymous donors to help pet owners facing financial hardship."
I blink in surprise, suspicion immediately prickling at the back of my neck. “A…a fund?"
"Yes," Sophie continues smoothly. "It will cover Paco's treatment and medication today as well as continued treatments. All we ask is that you bring him back for his follow-up appointments so we can monitor his progress."
The relief is so sudden and overwhelming that for a moment, I can't speak. Then suspicion creeps in, sharper now. This feels odd. Too good to be true. I know better than to trust something that’s too good to be true.
"I don’t—“ I begin, the words sticking in my throat.
"It's a newer program," Sophie interjects quickly. "Paco qualifies."
I want to refuse. Pride and suspicion war with desperate gratitude. In my world, nothing comes without a price, without strings attached. But I can’t refuse this. I just can’t.
"Gracias," I say finally, my voice thick with emotion.
Sophie reviews his medication schedule with me and fifteen minutes later, I'm heading out the door with Paco—breathing easier after his treatment—nestled in my arms, along with a bag of medications and careful instructions.
Outside, I've gone less than half a block when a lowered car with tinted windows pulls alongside me, bass thumping so hard it vibrates through the pavement into my bones. My heart sinks, and Paco stirs in my arms, sensing my sudden tension. I know that car.
The passenger window slides down, revealing Carlos, one of the Los Lobos gang members who's been making my life hell for months. Three other members are in the car with him—including the two from last night.
"Hola, Luna," he calls, smiling with teeth that gleam too white against his heavily tattooed face. "Where are you rushing to, mamacita?”
I keep walking, eyes forward.
“Don’t be like that.” Carlos opens the door and steps out, blocking my path. More gang members emerge from the back seat, flanking him. One is younger, probably new since he looks eager to prove himself. The most dangerous kind.
“It’s rude to ignore friends who just want to talk business." Carlos's smile disappears.
"I have no business with you,” I say, trying to sound braver than I feel.
“How ‘bout pleasure then.” He steps closer. My nose wrinkles involuntarily and Carlos’s eyes narrow, a muscle in his jaw twitching. "You're late on your payments. You owe fifty dollars.”
"I don't owe you anything," I say, trying to sound braver than I feel.
"Everything from Sixteenth to Thirtieth is our territory. And everyone pays for protection. Even pretty little things like you."
My grip tightens on Paco as I calculate escape routes. The busy street is half a block away—too far. The vet clinic entrance is closer, but I'd have to get past them.
"Protection from what? You're the only ones threatening me."
The two others laugh, but Carlos doesn't. He reaches out to touch my face, and I jerk back.
"I don't have fifty dollars," I say truthfully.
"Then I guess you’ll have to work it off another way." His gaze travels down my body, making me feel naked despite my baggy clothes.
The young one snickers, nudging his friend. “Business it is, then. We just so happen to have a position open.”
"I need to go," I say, trying to step around them but Carlos grabs my arm. Paco starts to growl, which triggers a coughing fit. I need to keep him calm and get him home.
As Carlos’s fingers dig in hard enough to bruise, I reach into my pocket, my hand closing around the small canister of pepper spray I carry. It won't stop all of them, but it might give me a chance to run.
"Stay back," I warn, my voice stronger than I expected. I shift Paco to my left arm, keeping my right hand on the spray. "I don't want any trouble, but I'll defend myself if I have to."
They roar with laughter, clearly not intimidated at all.
"You hear that, guys?" a skinny guy with pock marks snickers. "She'll defend herself."
Carlos grins. "Go ahead, chiquita. Try."
Paco growls again, a tiny soldier ready to fight despite his illness.
As my finger rests lightly on the nozzle, I hear the rumble of a motorcycle engine. The sound is faint but distinctive. Powerful. Like a coming storm.
Hope surges in my chest.