Nolan Voss checked the repaired bracket with his work light, then ran a gloved finger along the cooled edge. The morning crew could have handled it. He’d said so himself before volunteering to stay.
Now the six-story building was nearly dark. Wind worried the plastic sheeting along an upper floor, and somewhere below him a loose latch kept striking a metal door. November had arrived hard in Fairholt, Nebraska. By sundown, every exposed piece of steel seemed to hold the cold.
He shut off the light and packed his equipment. At forty-three, Nolan still moved with the economy he’d learned in the Navy, although ten years of welding had added a stiffness to his shoulders that hadn’t been there when he was a SEAL. He was six feet four, broad through the back, with close-cut dark hair and a gray streak above one ear. People often mistook his quiet for contentment.
In his locker, a sand-colored field jacket hung beside a dented thermos. He pulled off his protective clothing, put on the jacket, and reached beneath his shirt to straighten his dog tags. The familiar movement brought another man to mind.
Patrick Keene had always caught him doing that.
“Making sure they didn’t promote you while you weren’t looking?” Pat would ask.
Pat had a joke for every miserable hour, most of them terrible. Once, before their final mission together, he’d produced two baseball tickets and held them carefully by the corners. He’d bought them for himself and his little girl.
“She’ll last four innings,” Nolan had told him.
“Then we’ll spend the other five eating.”
He could still see Pat folding the tickets into a letter. There had been a plan for an enormous hot dog, a new cap, an ordinary Saturday when nobody would need to listen for a radio.
Nolan had come home. Pat hadn’t.
There had been an order to withdraw, men who depended on Nolan obeying it, and no safe way back to his friend. He understood all of that. Understanding had never persuaded him to stop working long after everyone else went home.
He crossed the site toward the temporary rest area, carrying his lunch container with most of its contents untouched. The Veydran project occupied an old commercial parcel on the western side of town. Beyond the fence, a few cars moved through the industrial streets. Inside, nothing should have been moving at all.
Then he heard a faint rasp, followed by a much smaller whistle.
Nolan stopped beside a stack of bundled conduit. He waited through another gust.
There it was again.
An upside-down yellow hard hat sat on a folded tarp near the traffic cones. Nolan crouched and found a German Shepherd puppy tucked inside it, nose buried against his belly.
The dog was perhaps fourteen weeks old. Black fur covered his back and muzzle; his legs were tan, with paws too large for the rest of him. A pale tuft showed beneath his chin. Above his right eye, a narrow gold marking gave him a questioning expression even in sleep. One ear stood. The other folded over at the tip.
Nolan set down his lunch.
“You’re going to need a smaller uniform.”
An eye opened. The puppy inspected him, sighed, and went back to sleep.
Nolan almost smiled. Then the little dog stretched, pushed himself upright, and caught his head beneath the hard hat’s suspension. The shell tipped over his face.
For several seconds he stood without moving. Then, evidently satisfied with a plan Nolan couldn’t see, he marched straight into a cone.
The hollow plastic knocked against the ground. The puppy sat down backward, sneezed, and tried again.
Nolan laughed aloud.
It startled him enough that he glanced toward the empty workstations. He hadn’t meant to make that sound. The puppy was still negotiating with the cone.
“Hold your position,” Nolan said, reaching down. “Let’s get your windshield clear.”
He lifted away the helmet. The dog blinked, planted one enormous paw on Nolan’s boot, and licked his hand.
Only then did Nolan see how little flesh there was beneath the coat. The puppy’s belly was tucked up, his movements weary once the excitement passed. One front paw had a raw-looking area between the toes.
Nolan examined it without pressing.
“Somebody let you get into something.”
The puppy leaned against his wrist.
There was no dish nearby, no food, no person calling from the parking area. Nolan rang the overnight veterinary clinic and described what he’d found. A technician told him to keep the dog warm, offer a little water if he was fully alert, discourage licking, and bring him in.
He was ending the call when a door slammed behind him.
Curtis Bell stood beside the office trailer. The foreman’s white hard hat sat low over his brow, and his orange vest hung open over a heavy shirt. At fifty-two, he had a compact, powerful build and the red-rimmed eyes of a man whose day had gone on too long.
“Why aren’t you gone, Voss?”
“Found a puppy. I’m taking him to a clinic.”
Curtis looked past him at the tarp. “We can call animal control in the morning.”
“He won’t be staying out here until morning.”
“This isn’t part of your job.”
“I’ve clocked out.”
The foreman’s mouth tightened. “Fine. Go. And leave the equipment where it belongs.”
Nolan glanced at the yellow hard hat. “I’ll ask the office about it. Might help find his owner.”
“Just don’t bring the animal back.”
Curtis turned before Nolan answered.
Near the secured materials, Frank Tully stood with both hands in the pockets of his quilted vest. He was sixty-one, narrow through the shoulders, with silver hair escaping his cap and a gray beard he trimmed unevenly. Forty years around steel had thickened the joints of his fingers.
His eyes were fixed on the helmet.
“Know whose that is?” Nolan asked.
Frank took a moment to look at him. “Could be anybody’s.”
“You were looking pretty hard.”
“Was I?” He attempted a smile. “Been a long day.”
Nolan waited. Frank glanced toward the trailer, then at the shivering puppy.
“Keep him warm,” the older man said.
“That’s the plan.”
Frank nodded and walked toward the gate.
Nolan got a clean towel from his truck. Before leaving, he told the remaining office clerk that he wanted to borrow the abandoned helmet while they tried to identify its owner. She made a note of it and waved him through.
At the clinic, the puppy submitted to an examination until someone offered him the corner of a towel. Then he began a determined effort to carry it off the table.
The veterinarian cleaned his paw, checked his hydration, and provided treatment. A scan found no registration that led them to an owner. The skin irritation might have come from construction material, she explained, but she couldn’t identify the cause with certainty. He was tired and mildly dehydrated. With monitoring and proper care, she expected him to do well.
Nolan released a breath against his collar.
“What should we put down for a name?” she asked.
He looked at the black-and-tan head bent over the stolen towel.
“Gusset.”
She glanced up from the chart.
“A little piece that strengthens a joint,” he explained. “I work with steel.”
“Gusset it is.”
“Until we find his person.”
The puppy sneezed on the chart.
By the time they reached Nolan’s house, the neighborhood had settled into darkness. He left the porch light on out of habit, although nobody ever came by. Inside, there was one pair of boots beside the mat, one place set near the stove, and no reason to keep any doors closed.
He made a bed in a shallow basket, put down fresh water, and checked the paw as instructed. Gusset inspected the towels, circled once, and dropped so abruptly that Nolan reached forward before realizing he’d simply gone to sleep.
“Good effort,” he murmured.
He put his tags on the dresser and returned to the kitchen. Usually, at this hour, he looked over the next week’s overtime assignments. Tonight he sat with a glass of water and listened to the basket.
A towel rustled. A tiny snore followed.
Pat would have had a dozen remarks about this dog. He’d have saluted that fallen ear, probably.
Nolan smiled, then lowered his head over the glass.
When he went to check the basket, Gusset lifted his chin and laid it across Nolan’s fingers. Nolan stayed crouched beside him until the puppy’s breathing deepened again.
The hard hat remained on the kitchen table. He carried it beneath the light and turned it, looking for an inventory sticker or company mark. Near the back, under a scuff of dried paint, black letters had been written by hand.
M. SALCEDO…
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