1
PEYTON
The first truck pulled in at 7:15 a.m., and by 8:30, I’d lost count of how many had followed.
Dogs. Dozens of them. Crammed into crates, huddled in carriers, some so matted and skinny, it made my chest ache just to look at them. The puppy mill bust had been all over the news for days, but nothing prepared me for seeing the reality up close—the fear in their eyes, the way they flinched at sudden movements, the smell of neglect clinging to their fur.
“Where do you want these?” A volunteer I didn’t recognize was holding two carriers, looking overwhelmed.
“Intake area.” I pointed toward the folding tables we’d set up near the trailer. “Log them in, check for obvious injuries, then move them to holding. Dr. Hanson will assess them when she can.”
The volunteer nodded and hurried off. I checked my clipboard, crossed off another task, and immediately added two more. This was supposed to be an organized operation. Right now, it felt like everything was being held together by momentum and luck.
My phone buzzed with another text from my roommate, Josie.How’s it going? Need reinforcements?
I typed back quickly,Surviving. Barely. Talk later.
I shoved the phone into my pocket and waded back into the fray. The parking lot—if you could call it that—had transformed into a makeshift staging area. Volunteers milled around, waiting for direction. Trucks idled near the road, waiting to unload. And in the middle of it all, the sad little vet trailer sat like a losing science fair project next to the gleaming firehouse, completely inadequate for the scale of what we were dealing with.
Dr. Hanson was inside, performing emergency surgery on a dog that had arrived in critical condition. Her vet tech, Rylie, was assisting, which meant I was the one out here trying to keep everything from falling apart.
I wasn’t qualified for this. I was a community college student who volunteered on weekends because it helped fill the hole that Benny had left behind. Two months since we’d lost our beloved beagle mix, and I still reached for him sometimes when I woke up. Still expected to hear his tags jingling when I came home.
My roommate had loved him too, but I’d been the one who took care of him. Who rushed home to see him every time I was out. Who held him at the end when there was nothing else we could do.
Volunteering helped. It gave me somewhere to put all that love that had nowhere to go. But coordinating a full-scale rescue operation was several levels above my pay grade.
“Peyton.” One of the regular volunteers, Joel, jogged over. “We’re running out of space in holding. The overflow area is almost full too.”
“Already?” I checked the time. Not even nine o’clock. “Okay, um… start doubling up the smaller dogs. Make sure they’re compatible first—no fights. And see if anyone brought extra crates. We might need to set up another section.”
Joel nodded and took off. I rubbed my temples, trying to think three steps ahead when I could barely manage one.
That’s when I heard the truck. Not a rescue transport—those had a particular rumble, heavy with cargo. This was something different. Smoother. More expensive.
I turned and watched a black pickup pull into the lot. It was pristine—not a speck of mud despite the February weather. It parked at the edge of the activity, and for a moment, nothing happened.
Then the driver’s door opened, and he stepped out.
Tall. Broad. Dark hair, a few days past needing a trim. He wore jeans and a flannel shirt that probably cost more than it looked, and he moved with the kind of confidence that said he was used to being in charge. His gaze swept across the parking lot—the volunteers, the crates, the general mayhem—and his expression hardened into something cold.
He strode toward me like a man on a mission, and I had the sudden, irrational urge to run. But I didn’t. I planted my feet and lifted my chin, clipboard clutched to my chest like a shield.
“Who’s in charge here?” His voice was deep, clipped, demanding.
“Dr. Hanson runs the clinic. She’s unavailable at the moment.”
“Unavailable.” He said the word like it personally offended him. “There are fifty vehicles in this parking lot, dogs everywhere, people trampling across property lines, and the person in charge is unavailable?”
“She’s performing emergency surgery.” I kept my voice calm, professional. “One of the dogs came in critical. She’s trying to save its life.”
Something flickered in his eyes—too fast to read—but his jaw stayed tight. “Then who authorized all this?”
“The rescue organization coordinated with the clinic. This is a temporary staging area while we?—”
“Temporary.” He cut me off with a humorless laugh. “Do you have any idea whose land you’re standing on right now?”
I blinked. “The clinic’s?”
