Chapter 6 #2
Then she screams one word that punches straight through my chest.
“Wolves!”
My blood turns cold. Wolves. Real wolves. Not therapy dogs. Predators. Maybe even a little worse than Michael Myers.
My stomach drops, doing a freefall inside the gallop. My hands tighten until the saddle horn bites into my palms, the pain grounding me for a fleeting moment. But Honey’s panic is a storm I can’t outrun.
A branch snaps across my cheek, white-hot pain slicing a line of fire through my skin.
I gasp, and the sound is thin and strangled.
I throw my arms up to shield my face, but I’m too slow.
Another branch claws at my forearm, and a horrific image of the trees grabbing at me like sentient beings flashes through my mind.
Honey’s hooves skid hard, and her weight pitches forward.
In the split second before gravity claims me, some part of me understands.
I’m not in control. Not of the horse. Not of my body. Not of anything.
Honey veers to the left, and I slip. I try to grab on to anything to give me purchase, but it’s too late. The air rushes out of me, because suddenly there is no horse, no ground under my feet. Nothing but open air and the sickening lurch of stability dropping out from beneath me.
I fall.
At first it feels like I’m flying through the air for an eternity, but then suddenly I hit the ground way too fast. I land on my back, a shock wave of pain ripping through my ribs and spine. The breath explodes from my lungs in one violent burst and does not return.
I claw at the ground instinctively, fingers digging into dirt and leaves, desperate for something to anchor me. But my body is locked in that awful no-breath space, where the world is soundless, and all I can think about is the pain.
I try to inhale. Nothing. My breath hits a wall.
The panic is instant and primal, boiling through me, scattering my thoughts. I choke on nothingness. My rib cage seizes. Every nerve fires at once. Air is refused entrance to my lungs. I’m blind. Disoriented. On my back in the woods.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t scream for help.
And somewhere behind the panic of not being able to see and breathe, I remember the wolves.
Wolves.
The world tilts sideways. The ground moves under me. Or maybe that’s just me shaking.
My heart slams so hard I can hear it in my ears.
I am alone.
I am helpless.
I am prey.
My lungs unlock, and suddenly I can inhale. A sound tears from my throat, thin and panicked, but I can’t stop it, can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t…
Then…
A soft sound. Footfalls.
Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.
This is it. I’m going to be some wolf’s dinner. I still. Or at least I try to because right now I feel like I’m vibrating like a bobblehead doll. In the stillness, I hear a faint whimper. It’s close. Oh my god, it’s way too close. Close enough that I feel it vibrate against my hip.
Something warm touches my side. Warm and solid and enormous. Heat rolls off it in waves. I’m trying not to think about how this wolf is going to maul me. Is it going to finish me off or leave me maimed?
I flinch as fur makes contact with my skin. Then the body curls around me. No excruciating pain comes. No teeth crunching into bone. A big, warm, breathing body wraps around mine. Softer than any dog I’ve ever touched. Heavier than any dog I’ve ever been near.
He presses into me, slow, careful, like he’s trying to take some of my weight, like he’s telling me I’m not alone.
Warm breath huffs against my cheek.
Okay, a wolf is not going to wrap around me like a giant teddy bear, is it? Relieved breath stutters out of my mouth. This must be a guide dog. But damn, how big are the guide dogs they have here? Is this a Newfoundland?
My shaking slows just enough for air to finally drag back into my lungs in a small, broken gasp. Then the tears come. Maybe they’re tears of relief or residual terror. I can’t tell anymore. A tongue sweeps across my cheek. Firm and warm and steady.
Not licking for play. Licking to calm me. The next breath I take is deeper. Shaky, yes, but real. My fingers reach without thinking, burying into that fur. I hold onto it as if that massive, living warmth is the only thing keeping me tethered to the world. And maybe it is.
“Okay,” I whisper, voice trembling. “Okay… okay… you’re helping me. You’re not a wolf. You’re not going to kill me. You’re not going to maul me. Thank you.”
He shifts beside me, nudging my shoulder, urging me to move.
And for the first time since I fell, I do. First, I sit up. My head spins and nausea rolls through my entire body. He whines again, and I lean against him. I’m going to give myself one minute, then I need to get up.
He stays pressed against me, a mountain of heat and quiet strength. Every time my breath wobbles, he answers with a soft huff as if to reassure me. My hands stay buried in his fur, my body leaning into his like he’s the only solid thing left in the world. And maybe he is.
He shifts again, guiding me—no, not exactly guiding, more inviting.
Is this dog trying to motivate me? His body braces under my side, strong enough to carry my weight but gentle as a whisper.
I slowly stand up. My ribs scream with every movement, and I suck in a breath.
He’s patient. He waits. He breathes with me.
His fur is warm under my fingers. He’s my lifeline.
He’s my anchor. And why do I assume the dog’s a he?
He nudges me as if to encourage me some more. I slowly stand, resting some of my weight on him. He moves slowly. The gravel under my feet turns to softer, more slippery footing that could be wet leaves, then grass.
I still don’t let go. Not even when voices break through the trees.
But he does. Suddenly, his fur slips from my fingers and the warmth is gone.
I reach for him. “Hey, buddy, don’t go. You’re a hero.
You should get a giant steak as a reward.
” But he’s gone. I’m left alone and feeling…
orphaned. Good God, Violet. You really are a drama queen.
“Violet! Violet. Oh my gosh, I found her. Here! Over here!”
Branches snap. Footsteps pound the earth. Radios crackle. Someone shouts my name again, breathless with panic.
Someone drops to their knees beside me. “Oh my god, Violet, are you okay? I’m so sorry. I couldn’t hold on. Honey came tearing back alone. Jesus, your face, it’s all scratched up, and your arms—”
Jenna’s hands descend on me. Then there are more. Too many hands, probing gently, but my body flinches anyway. My heart slams against my ribs, my breath catching again.
They touch my shoulders, my cheek, my wrists. Someone tries to lift me. It’s way too much.
“It’s okay,” someone murmurs. “We’ve got you. You’re safe now.”
Safe.
But the warmth beside me… that’s gone. That’s what safety feels like.
Someone’s hand gently presses against my cheek. “Sweetheart, we need to take a look at your injuries.”
I reach up and touch the slice on my cheek. “No, I’m okay. I just got winded, that’s all.”
Someone catches my hand gently. “We have to get you to the hospital, Violet. You’re bleeding. Let us help you.”
I crane my head toward where I can feel him, that huge presence now in the distance. The air already feels colder without him pressed against me.
“Please,” I whisper, not sure to who.
I swear I hear a howl in the distance. And then I’m being picked up.
“It’s okay. I can walk. You can put me down.” My cheeks sting with mortification. I can still walk.
The walk out of the woods is a blur of voices and steady hands guiding me. Every rustle of leaves makes me flinch. My ribs ache. My cheek throbs. My arms sting from a bunch of scratches. But all of it is drowned out by the hollow ache where that warmth used to be.
“Almost there,” someone says.
“Please, I don’t want to go to the hospital.”
Jenna squeezes my hand. “I know you don’t, but unfortunately, because it happened at the sanctuary, we have to take you. I’m sorry.”
I know Jenna is aware of my trauma associated with hospitals, so she wouldn’t make me go unless she didn’t have a choice herself.
Still, that feeling of total helplessness descends like a wet, muggy blanket.
They help me into a vehicle and buckle me in.
The doors slam, the engine kicks to life, and my stomach sinks.
Nothing good ever comes from going to the hospital.
I lift my fingers to my trembling lip and get the scent of the guide dog on my hands. It smells woodsy and wild and… safe.
All I can think is, why did he leave? Did he run? Did they scare him off? Did they find him and keep him safe?
I clutch the seatbelt like it’s fur. I hope he’s okay.
Antiseptic overwhelms my nostrils the moment we walk into the ER. That and the cloying scent of fear and desperation disguised as hope. Voices are high-pitched and breathy, the pleading in them heavy in the space. Then there’s the doctors with their false optimism. Snippets of conversation:
“We’ll have you sorted out in no time.”
“Take these and you’ll feel better.”
“We’re optimistic you’ll make a full recovery.”
My heart races at the thought that they don’t always know that. I’m requested to get on a bed. Then it’s hands everywhere again, tools clicking. The unending questions.
“Dizziness?”
“Any numbness?”
“Pain scale from one to ten?”
“Hold still, sweetheart.”
“This cut needs flushing.”
“She’s lucky—this could have been much worse.”
There’s that word again. Lucky.
Lucky.
Lucky.
The word repeats until it stops meaning anything.
I sit through it with my jaw clenched, my body shaking from the adrenaline crash.
My arms sting as they clean the scrapes.
My ribs are prodded and declared bruised, not broken.
They stitch the deeper cut on my forearm.
My cheek is bandaged. People keep telling me I did well.
That I’m safe. That everything’s okay. But I don’t feel okay.
Not without him. I never used to understand the absolute devastation people would go through when they lost a pet.
I mean, I could sympathize, but I guess working on the farm and being up close and personal with the circle of life taught me a different side of losing animals.
So, how did I get so attached to a dog I spent maybe ten minutes with?
Discharge takes forever, but eventually someone places a hand on my arm and guides me outside. The air smells different, cooler.
My medical driver, Sam, waits in the pickup zone, turning down the soft jazz as I climb in.
“How’s the pain?” he asks gently.
“I’ve had worse.”
“I guess that was a stupid question.”
Shit, I’m being a bitch. “Not at all. I’m sorry. I’m grouchy. It’s been a long day.”
“You couldn’t get me on one of those beasts if you paid me. Goes without saying, being taken on a joyride you never signed up for would make you a little salty.”
I want to say it wasn’t Honey’s fault, but I don’t have the energy. Plus, it brought the mystery dog into my life.
The ride is quieter than it normally is, and I’m grateful Sam doesn’t probe. He sees me up the porch steps and to my front door.
“You gonna be good, Violet?”
“Yes, thank you, Sam. I’m gonna take a shower and get right into bed.”
“You have my number if you need anything.”
For the first time since Honey bolted, I smile.
Sam always leaves with the same sign-off, and I always confirm that I have his number.
The routine settles me a bit. But then all too soon I’m reminded I never got to have my evaluation today.
Now more than ever, I realize I want a dog.
No…need a dog. And I specifically want the one from today.
The house feels muffled. Like everything is dialed back a little. It’s too quiet. Too lonely.
After a shower, I crawl into bed. The sheets are cold and my heartbeat is way too loud.
I don’t get the usual feeling of satisfaction and accomplishment I normally get after my Tuesday visits to the sanctuary.
Usually, I’m on a high when I get home. Today, I just feel lonely.
I don’t feel the residual lull of Honey’s steady rhythm to send me to sleep.
My breath is too loud, and I find myself wishing I could hear someone else’s breath in the room, which takes my brain straight back to serial killers and madmen. Not that those two are mutually exclusive.
I need a dog.
I need that dog.
I hope he’s safe.
I hope I feel that warmth again.