Part 2
Lydia Shaw knelt at the crate and worked the latch while Grant held the frame steady. She had a towel around Toby’s paw before he could turn back toward Piper’s voice.
The veterinarian inspected the nail, then looked at the transport worker.
“He’s not making that trip. Take him off the list.”
The bleeding stopped with pressure. Finding him a bed would take longer.
Tessa scrolled through the foster contacts on her phone. Grant knew the list was exhausted; he had heard half the calls. When she lifted her eyes to him, he shook his head.
“Not me, Tessa.”
“I need three nights.”
He looked away, down the hall where the closed electrical doors still carried warning signs.
“You can bring him here to see Piper every day,” she added. “You’re close, he knows you, and I can get to you in five minutes if you need help.”
Toby had found the stolen glove on top of the blankets. He was chewing a finger with careful concentration. Grant reached for it. Toby retreated, keeping his eyes on Grant’s hand.
Tessa waited.
At forty-six, Grant had a nearly paid-off house, a fenced yard, and no one waiting at home who might object. He pressed his tongue against the back of his teeth.
“Three nights. That’s the agreement.”
“I’ll get the form.”
Before they left, Grant brought Toby to the medical gate. Piper eased herself closer. Their noses met beside the frame, and Grant waited with the leash loose until she had found a comfortable position.
“Tomorrow,” he told them. “We’ll come back tomorrow.”
Toby looked behind him twice on the way out.
Grant drove around by the road rather than walking through the woods. There was food to carry, bedding, a bag of supplies, and a puppy who needed to ride secured in the back.
In the mudroom, Toby discovered Boone’s old dog door. He sniffed the flap, shouldered through it, and stood in the yard with his ears tipped forward.
Grant followed. He tested the gate latch and walked the fence, pushing at the bottom with his boot. A light fall of snow showed on the grass. Beneath the shelter of the porch roof, a strip of earth remained bare. The wire looked sound, and he couldn’t find a gap.
Inside, Toby made a quick survey of the rooms available to him. He disappeared down the hall and came back with a sock.
He hit the kitchen corner too fast. His feet skated apart, and he slid against a cabinet, unhurt but deeply offended. Grant set the water bowl down before he laughed.
“Bad turn, rookie.”
Toby stood, shook himself, and seized the sock again.
Grant traded a shelter toy for it, then dragged a runner into the kitchen. He flattened both ends with his foot before starting supper.
After eating his own meal, Toby installed himself beneath Grant’s chair. The puppy could rest his chin at the exact level of Grant’s knee. He watched every trip the fork made.
“You’ve had yours,” Grant said.
Toby waited.
Grant found himself explaining the contents of two different bowls as if this were a dispute that could be resolved with evidence. A scrap of chicken fell beside his boot. Toby caught it, swallowed, and restored his chin to its previous position.
“An accident. Don’t build a case on it.”
After the dishes, Grant reached toward the kitchen radio. He had kept it playing most evenings since Boone died, sometimes listening to a station he didn’t even like because changing it required standing in the quiet.
A scraping sound came from the spare room.
He left the switch alone.
Toby emerged with a faded rubber ball, carrying it carefully despite a split along one seam. Grant recognized the damage before he saw the whole thing.
Boone had chewed that seam open and continued fetching the ball long after it had lost any useful bounce. Grant had packed away the dog’s things, or thought he had. A streak through the dust beneath the spare-room shelving showed where Toby had reached it.
The ball rolled against Grant’s boot.
He bent, then stopped before his fingers touched it. Instead, he lowered himself to the floor, bracing one hand on the doorframe.
Toby watched him for a few seconds. When nothing was thrown, he stretched out beside the ball and laid his muzzle on his paws.
The refrigerator clicked off. Grant stayed on the floor until the puppy’s eyelids had closed.
He made up a small bed outside his bedroom that night. Toby tried it, scratched once at the blanket, then wandered toward the front of the house.
Grant found him at the window. Between the trees, the medical wing’s lights showed against the dark.
“She’s over there,” he said softly. “They’re taking care of her.”
One ear angled back. Toby’s nose remained near the cold glass.
Grant didn’t tug him away. He waited, called him once more from the hallway, and eventually heard the little nails following.
Toby brought the ball. He tucked it between his front legs and settled outside the open bedroom door. Grant turned off his lamp and listened to a few restless movements, then the even sound of sleep.
The clock read 5:43 when he woke.
His alarm hadn’t sounded. He lay still, trying to identify whatever had brought him out of sleep. Then he reached for the lamp.
The puppy’s bed was empty.
The ball lay beside it.
Grant checked the living room first, then the kitchen. By the time he reached the mudroom, he was moving fast. The dog-door flap had caught against its frame, leaving a crooked opening through which cold air blew across the floor.
He shoved his bare feet into boots and went outside.
The gate was latched. He followed the fence with his eyes, then saw the mound of dark soil beneath the porch overhang.
Toby had dug into the unfrozen strip, scraping a shallow trench beneath the wire. Grant dropped to one knee and put his fingers through the opening. There was more room than he would have believed a puppy could make.
“Toby!”
The yard gave him nothing back but the dry ticking of branches.
He went inside for his coat and phone, pulling a leash off the mudroom hook as he passed. On the porch, he looked down at the leather in his hand.
Boone’s lead.
He could see it on the passenger seat again, the clip rocking with each turn on the drive from the clinic.
Grant set it on the porch rail. He found a slip lead in the foster bag and returned to the yard.
Beyond the fence, the woods sloped toward the shelter. Toby would have to cross the service lane to reach it. If he turned instead, that lane would carry him to the county road.
Grant went through the gate and called the shelter. The phone kept ringing.
No one answered…
To read the rest of the story – CLICK the NEXT button 👇👇👇