"That's... thorough."
"I'm always thorough, Captain."
The way she says my rank makes it sound like an insult. I kind of love it.
"This way, Dr. O'Connor." I gesture toward the K9 facility. "Master Sergeant Porter is waiting for us. He runs the unit."
We drive in silence for approximately thirty seconds before I crack.
"So. How's the clinic? Has it recovered from Ranger's visit?"
"Fine."
"That angry cat still alive?"
"He’s fine."
"Great weather we're having."
"Is small talk a required part of this tour, or can we skip to the actual consultation?"
I bite back a grin. "Just trying to be friendly."
"I'm not here to make friends, Captain. I'm here to assess your kennel facilities and provide recommendations for improvement." She doesn't look at me as she sits, her posture purposeful and stiff. "If you'd prefer to discuss the currentsquare footage per dog or the ventilation system specifications, I'm happy to engage."
"You know the current square footage?" I pull up to the building and we both climb out of the cart.
"Sixty-four square feet per standard kennel run. Below the recommended minimum for high-drive working dogs. Your HVAC system was installed in 2008 and hasn't been upgraded since, which means you're likely dealing with inadequate air exchange rates in summer months."
I stop walking.
She makes it three more steps before she notices, turning back with an impatient expression. "Problem?"
"You memorized our facility specs?"
"I read the file the county liaison sent over. It wasn't complicated."
"That file was forty pages."
"I'm a fast reader." She tilts her head, studying me like I'm a slightly slow student. "Did you think I'd show up unprepared?"
"No, I just?—"
"Because I don't do anything unprepared, Captain. Ever."
The words land with a weight that feels like more than professional pride. There's a story there, buried under all that competence and armor.
I want to know it.
"Noted," I say instead. "No more small talk. Straight to business."
"Thank you."
We resume walking, and I keep my mouth shut for an entire minute. Personal record.
The K9 facility comes into view—a cluster of buildings housing kennels, training areas, and administrative offices. It's functional but dated, exactly as outdated as Callie's research suggested. Master Sergeant Devlin Porter is waiting outside themain kennel building, arms crossed, expression as unreadable as always.
Dev and I go back three years. He transferred to Ridgeway around the same time I did, and we bonded over late nights at the Rusty Spur and a shared understanding that the job takes pieces of you whether you want it to or not. He doesn't talk much, but when he does, people listen.
