Knot for the Stray Omega

1. A Shocking Welcom

A Shocking Welcom

Jessie

The AC in my custom van cranks on full blast, fighting a losing battle against the brutal afternoon sun baking the windshield.

I tap my thumbs against the leather steering wheel in time with some indie rock playlist coming through the Bluetooth speakers.

The flatlands of Colorado blur past the windows in an endless, boring stretch of dry yellow grass and the occasional rusted tractor sitting in a field.

I really love this van. I dumped a massive chunk of my locum tenens veterinary salary into customizing it.

It features sleek laminate cabinetry, top-tier insulation, solar panels on the roof, and a memory foam mattress in the back.

It’s essentially a luxury apartment on wheels, giving me everything I need and the absolute freedom to leave whenever I want.

My phone buzzes in the cup holder. I glance down and catch an email notification from the placement agency sitting on the screen. It confirms my arrival window for the Willowside clinic. I ignore it. They know I’ll get there when I get there.

Growing up bouncing between foster homes taught me the value of a fast exit.

Moving on when a contract ends gives me peace of mind with no leases or messy goodbyes.

I swoop in, fix their animals, get my large contractor checks, and roll out the second my contract expires.

It’s a clean, efficient way to live, and it keeps me from putting down roots that just end up rotting anyway.

I reach over and pop the latch on the center console.

I grab a small orange pill bottle, flick the childproof cap off with my thumb, and shake a single white tablet into my palm.

I toss it back and swallow it dry. The bitter, chalky taste coats the back of my throat, making me grimace.

I grab the heavy glass bottle of scent-blocker sitting next to my coffee mug and spritz my neck and wrists.

It smells like synthetic sandalwood and citrus.

I hate the smell, but I need it to mask the natural Omega pheromones seeping out of my pores.

I don’t put the blocker balms on my upper lip or under my nose, though.

I need my sense of smell sharp to diagnose ear infections, parvo, and whatever else rolls through a clinic’s doors.

Passing as a Beta to the rest of the world keeps the Alpha creeps at bay and guarantees nobody questions my independence.

Winston, my massive black-and-white tuxedo cat, sleeps on the passenger seat. He stretches his front legs straight out, digging his claws right into the custom upholstery, and lets out a soft, vibrating trill. I reach over and scratch the soft fur right behind his ears.

“Almost there, buddy. We’ll have a whole apartment to run around in tonight.”

Winston leans into my hand, his purr ramping up into a loud motor.

Stationary living suits him better than the road.

He needs windows to yell at birds and space to get the zoomies at three in the morning.

The clinic comes with an apartment above it, so Winston gets a luxury suite for the next three months.

I ease up on the gas as the speed limit drops, navigating the van down the main thoroughfare toward the town limits. A blur of golden fur blasts out of the muddy ditch right next to the highway.

I slam my boot down on the brake pedal.

The heavy van jerks to a halt. The tires squeal, burning rubber against the hot asphalt, and the seatbelt locks tight across my chest, knocking the wind straight out of me.

I shove the gear shift into park, smack the hazard lights button on the dash, and throw the driver-side door open.

I hit the pavement and jog around the front bumper, expecting the absolute worst.

A large golden retriever sits three feet from my grille.

The dog pants happily, his mouth hanging wide open with a long pink tongue lolling out the side.

He lacks a collar, a harness, or a leash.

His thick golden coat is coated in dark, foul-smelling swamp mud. He looks like a literal swamp monster.

I drop to my knees right there on the rough asphalt.

Professional instincts take over. I run my hands over the dog’s mud-caked shoulders, ribcage, and flanks, squeezing his legs to feel for fractures or swelling.

The dog doesn’t flinch. I lift his slobbery upper lip and press my thumb against his gums. The tissue flashes white and returns to a healthy, vibrant pink.

Perfect capillary refill time. No internal bleeding.

The dog wags his tail so hard his entire back half wiggles, thumping a beat against the street. He leans forward and drags a massive, muddy tongue right up the side of my face.

I let out a short laugh, wiping the mud off my cheek with the back of my hand.

“You’re a lucky idiot, you know that?”

I dig into the deep pocket of my scrub pants.

I always keep a handful of freeze-dried salmon treats on me.

I pull out a few small squares, and the dog’s ears perk up.

His black nose twitches as he catches the fishy scent.

I hold the treats flat on my palm, making a high-pitched, obnoxious kissing noise, and back up toward the passenger side of the van.

I grab the heavy handle of the sliding side door and haul it open with a loud metallic clatter.

The golden retriever happily follows the food, hopping right up into my pristine living quarters.

His large muddy paws slip slightly on the custom laminate floor.

He sniffs eagerly at the base of my bed frame, dropping mud clumps all over the place.

Putting a strange stray right next to my bed risks getting mud all over my memory foam mattress, but I need a barrier between him and the front cab.

I trust Winston, but I don’t know what this dog will do if he gets too close to a cat.

Winston cracks a single green eye open from the front passenger seat. He peers back through the gap between the seats, gives the muddy dog a highly judgmental look, and tucks his nose back under his tail. totally unfazed.

I toss the last treat onto the floorboard, haul the sliding door shut, and jog back around to the driver’s seat. Time to go to work.

The cracked highway smooths out as I cross the town limits. The pavement transitions to a well-maintained cobblestone main street. Aged brick buildings line the downtown area, overflowing with hanging flower baskets and colorful awnings.

I guide the van past a bakery with a looping cursive sign in the window and spot a bed-and-breakfast featuring a hand-painted wooden sign swinging in the afternoon breeze.

A dress shop called Graceful Gowns sits right on the corner.

The whole town looks like a damn movie set.

It offers a stark departure from the gritty urban emergency clinics I usually contract with, but the money is the same.

I spot the veterinary clinic at the end of the block.

The red brick building looks sturdy, featuring clean white trim and a swept front walk.

A gravel parking lot sits behind the building, bordered by tall privacy bushes.

I hit my turn signal, steer the heavy van into the lot, and bring it to a stop near the concrete steps of the back entrance.

An older man waits near the door. He wears a faded plaid shirt and lidwiytr625wsuspenders, clutching a clipboard to his chest and jingling a heavy ring of brass keys in his right hand. I shove the van into park, cut the engine, and hop out into the afternoon heat.

The man flashes a polite smile and extends a calloused hand.

“You must be Dr. Jessica Smith. I’m Mr. Miller, the building owner. I manage the property for the town board. We are thrilled you made it.”

I grab his hand, giving it a firm shake. He has no scent. He must be a Beta. The realization forces my tense shoulders to drop an inch. Dealing with Beta landlords makes my transient life much easier.

“Just Jessie is fine. Good to meet you.”

Mr. Miller looks past my shoulder, staring at the side windows of the van. The golden retriever presses his wet, filthy nose flat against the tinted glass, smearing mud across the pane. The dog’s tail thumps a frantic rhythm against the interior panel.

A booming laugh erupts from Mr. Miller’s chest.

“I see you picked up a patient. Looks like he found every mud puddle between here and the county line.”

I let out a sigh, running a hand through my hair.

“He played chicken with my bumper a mile back. He lacks a collar, so I need to get him inside and scan him for a microchip. The clinic has a working scanner, right?”

“It does. Let’s get you inside. I can show you around the ground floor, take you upstairs to the apartment, and let you get settled.”

Mr. Miller turns, sliding a heavy key into the deadbolt of the sturdy metal door. The lock clicks open with a solid thud.

I pull the sliding side door of the van open, grab a fistful of the muddy dog’s scruff, and guide his heavy ass down to the gravel before he can bolt into the front cab.

I haul him up the concrete steps and through the threshold, following Mr. Miller into the building.

The air inside hits me like a brick. It smells like a textbook vet clinic.

It carries a distinct, lingering mix of industrial bleach, rubbing alcohol, and the faint, gross undertone of anal gland secretions baked into the drywall.

I walk through the back hallway, checking out the polished linoleum floors and the sturdy stainless steel exam tables.

The treatment area looks stocked and organized.

I spot a row of heavy-duty chain-link holding kennels along the far wall.

I guide the excited retriever into the largest bottom kennel, shoving him inside, and slide the heavy metal latch closed.

I grab a metal bowl from the drying rack next to the deep utility sink, fill it with cold water, and place it in the run’s corner.

Mr. Miller leans against the doorframe of the kennel room, watching me.