"Dr. Whitaker? There's someone here to see you. Says it's urgent."
"Walk-ins go through Margie."
"I know. But I think you should come see this."
Caleb Wright stoodnear the front desk, holding a cardboard box with holes punched in the sides. I knew who he was—everyone in Millbrook knew everyone—but we'd never had more than passing interactions. He'd built the cabinets in the Lewises' kitchen last year, did the renovation work on the old Miller house, kept to himself mostly.
He was tall, broad-shouldered in the way of men who worked with their hands. Worn jeans, canvas jacket, work boots that had seen better days. Dark hair, close-trimmed beard. He didn't smile when he saw me.
"Dr. Whitaker," he said. His voice was quiet but certain.
"Mr. Wright." I crossed my arms. "Lucy said it's urgent."
"It is." He shifted the box slightly, and I heard movement inside. Something small. Or, rather, multiple somethings. "Found these at the Morrison place. Old barn I'm tearing down. Someone left them."
I moved closer, and he tilted the box so I could see inside.
Six puppies. Yellow labs, maybe six or seven weeks old, piled together in a tangle of fur and paws. They looked up at me with dark eyes, and one of them whimpered.
Something in my chest caught. "How long have they been there?"
"Don't know. Came in this morning to start work and heard them crying." He looked down at the box, then back at me. "They need help."
"Yes, they do." I gestured toward exam room one. "Bring them in."
He followed me without a word, his boots heavy on the tile floor. I washed my hands at the sink while he set the box on the exam table, then pulled on gloves and reached for the first puppy.
They were dehydrated and flea-infested, but their eyes were bright and they had fight in them. I examined each one methodically, making notes on my clipboard.
Caleb had settled against the wall, arms crossed, watching me work. Most people would've hovered or peppered me with questions, but he just waited.
"How far out is the Morrison place?" I asked, checking the third puppy's gums.
"About eight miles. Off Route 12."
"Anyone living nearby?"
"Not anymore. Whole stretch has been empty for a couple years now."
I set the puppy back in the box and reached for the fourth. "So someone drove out there specifically to dump them."
"Looks like it."
My jaw tightened. "People are?—"
"Yeah," he said, voice flat. "They are."
I glanced up at him. His face gave nothing away, but I recognized something in the silence that followed. He wasn't the type to waste words on people who didn't deserve them, it seemed.
I finished examining the fifth puppy and was reaching for the sixth when I realized she'd already climbed out of the box. Shewas sitting at the edge of the exam table, watching me with her head tilted slightly to one side.
"Hey," I said, picking her up. "Your turn."
She was the smallest of the litter, coat a shade lighter than the others. She held still while I examined her, holding my gaze without a sound.
I set her back in the box with the others and turned to wash my hands again.
"They’ll need treatment. Deworming, vaccines, parasite check. It'll take at least an hour. After that..." I looked at the box, running through the options. "County shelter's full, and they don't take puppies this young anyway. I've got a couple foster contacts, but six at once is a lot to ask. Might have to split the litter."
