I flip another page in the veterinary wound care manual Wyatt picked up for me last week.
He handed it to me with a casual,“Thought you might like this,”but my throat tightened the second I realized what it meant.
He believes in me.
I run a finger under a line of text about managing deep-tissue injuries with topical antimicrobialswhen my phone buzzes on the table beside me.
Shay:Can you meet me at the far barn? Cheese Puff won’t put weight on her back leg. Need your eyes.
This is part of my life now—helping small animals with big personalities. And Shay knows I’m always happy to help.
I grab my coat, then stop. I need to let Wyatt know where I am.
I dial his number.
One ring.
Two.
Three.
Voicemail.
Okay. Probably deep in the far woods, where reception is held together by hope and duct tape.
I text him:
Me:Going to far barn. Shay needs help with Cheese Puff. Back soon. All good.
Not Delivered.
I try again.
StillNot Delivered.
The storm must be killing reception. Or that whole side of the property is a dead zone.
I can’t leave without telling himsomething.He’ll worry.
I scribble a note and weigh it down with my mug:
Wyatt—
Shay texted. Goat injury. Went to far barn to help.
Tried calling + texting. No service.
Back soon.
—Sadie
I scratch Maisie’s ears. “You stay and be adorable.”
Her tail thumps solemnly.
I button my coat and step out into the storm.
The walk takes twenty, maybe twenty-five minutes. Long enough for the cold to creep under my clothes.
