“Wellsy,” I whisper into the dark.
Silence.
“Wellsy, come here, boy.”
I wait for the familiar click of claws on the hardwood. I wait for the weight of him jumping onto the bed. I wait for the cold nose nudging my hand.
Nothing.
I sit up, panic flaring in my chest like a match strike. “Wellsy?”
I scramble out of bed, grabbing the flashlight. I click it on, the beam blinding me for a second. I sweep it around the room.
Under the bed. Empty.
In the closet. Empty.
Behind the chair. Empty.
“He was here,” I say out loud, my voice rising. “He was right here. I saw him when I came in.”
I saw him lying by the sofa when I was yelling at Rhett. When was that? An hour ago? Two?
Did I shut the front door? Yes. I’m sure I did.
But did he slip out when Rhett and I were walking down the hall?
Oh god.
The panic is a cold wave that washes over me, drowning out the anger, drowning out the OCD. This isn’t about dirt or schedules. This is about Wellsy. He’s a puppy. He’s small. He’s out there in the storm.
“Wellsy!”
I run out of the bedroom, not caring that I’m in my socks. I run down the hallway, the flashlight beam bouncing wildly off the walls.
I burst into the living room.
“Wellsy!”
The room is warmer than the bedroom. Much warmer. The fire in the hearth is roaring now, a beast of orange and yellow that lights up the whole space. The shadows dance on the walls.
On the sofa, Knox sits up, blinking. He was asleep, a blanket sliding off his shoulders. In the armchair, Boone shifts, his eyes snapping open.
“What the hell?” Knox asks, his voice thick with sleep. He rubs his face, looking around wildly. “Is the house on fire?”
“My dog,” I gasp, the beam of the flashlight hitting him in the face. He flinches. “Wellsy. He’s gone. He’s not in the bedroom.”
Boone is on his feet in an instant. He moves with a speed that is terrifying. “Gone? How can he be gone?”
“I don’t know!” I cry, the tears coming hot and fast. “I called him and he didn’t come. I looked everywhere. He was by the sofa earlier.”
“Did you check the kitchen?” Rhett asks, coming out of the shadows near the fireplace. He’s fully dressed, holding a poker.
“Yes! I checked everywhere!”
Boone runs a hand through his hair, his eyes scanning the room. “I saw him,” he says, his voice decisive. “A couple of hours ago. When I came in from the barn. Blue was chasing him near the stable. They were playing. He probably followed Blue out and didn’t come back in before the storm hit.”
The stable. That’s across the yard. That’s a hundred feet of mud and wind and rain.
