Jason nods, his gaze sliding to Atlas. “The doc’s meds worked. But the weather helped. The pressure is rising. The storm is fully blown out.” He gestures toward the front office. “The county road crew radioed. They’ve cleared the switchbacks up to the lower ridge. They estimate the summit pass will be open by tomorrow morning.”
The words land like a lead weight in my stomach.
My voice sounds thin. “Tomorrow.”
Jason leans on his shovel. “Plows are pushing the drifts now. Once they open the gates, the supply trucks will come through. And the road down will be clear.” He looks at me, his eyes quiet and direct. “You’ll be able to get your rental out.”
“Right. The rental.” I force a nod. “That’s good. The storm was... a lot.”
Jason doesn’t answer. He turns and heads out the back door, the scrape of his shovel against the concrete runs starting up a moment later.
I walk to the front clinic office, Atlas trotting close at my heel. The office is cold, the frost on the windows beginning to melt into long, clear tears that run down the glass. I sit at the metal desk, pulling my phone from my pocket.
Still no signal. The screen displays the thin, grey triangle of a disconnected network.
I pull the folder of estate papers from my bag, spreading the documents across the desk. The Cascade Development offer letter sits on top. The numbers are clean, black ink on white paper.
The acquisition payout is enough to clear my student loans. It’s enough to pay off the credit cards I maxed out during Jesse’s funeral downstate, to cover the remaining months on my city apartment lease, and to leave a cushion in my savings account.
It’s a clean slate. A way to return to my life behind a headset, talking strangers back from the edge without ever having to touch their grief.
So why does the signature line look like a trap?
I stare at the paper. The shelter is Jesse’s legacy. It’s the place where Wyatt spends eighteen hours a day keeping broken things breathing.
If I sell, Brock Sterling’s crews will bring bulldozers. They’ll tear down the clinic runs, clear the pines on the ridge, and build a resort for tourists who don’t know the difference between a working dog and a pet.
But if I don’t sell, the debts don’t go away. The collection calls will start again. My salary at the crisis line is a drop in the bucket. I don’t have the capital to run a veterinary clinic, and Wyatt can’t buy me out. He barely keeps the lights on as it is.
The door to the exam room swings open. Wyatt walks in, carrying a tray of syringe vials. He doesn’t look at the papers on the desk, but his jaw goes hard as he passes.
“The sheepdog needs her dressing changed.” His voice is tight. “I need you to hold her, if you don’t mind.”
If I don’t mind?As if I’d let her suffer.
I slide the papers back into the folder and stand. “I’m coming.”
In the exam room, the sheepdog lies on the steel table, her tongue lolling, her tail thumping a soft rhythm against the metal. Her breathing is clear at last, but the gauze around her foreleg, where the IV line sat, is soiled with drainage.
Wyatt preps a fresh roll of bandage. “Hold her head. Keep her calm. She doesn’t like the tape.”
I step to the head of the table, wrapping my arms gently around Dolly’s chest. I press my cheek to the side of her head, inhaling the scent of her clean fur. “Hey, sweet girl. You’re okay. Wyatt’s just fixing you up.”
My voice is steady, my crisis-line register sliding into place without my permission. It’s the tone that keeps callers breathing, the warm, low cadence designed to anchor a panicking mind.
Wyatt pauses, a strip of tape in his fingers. He looks up, his grey eyes searching my face. The cold wall is there, but beneath it, the raw tension from the morning remains. He remains silent. He drops his gaze back to her leg, his fingers moving with swift efficiency.
“I didn’t plan for this.” The silence in the room is too heavy to carry. “Any of it.”
“No one plans for a blizzard.” He wraps the gauze around her leg, tucking the end neatly.
“I don’t mean the storm.”
He pulls a pair of bandage scissors from his drawer. The metallic snip is sharp in the quiet room. “Then what do you mean?”
“The sale.” I tighten my grip on Dolly as she shifts. “The money isn’t a luxury for me. Student loans, credit cards, and the lease on a city apartment I can’t afford. My salary barely covers rent and groceries. The Cascade payout is the only way I have to get out of a hole I’ve been digging for six years.”
Wyatt finishes the bandage, pressing the tape down with his thumb. He stands straight, his broad chest rising as he looks at me. His expression is hard, the grey in his temples catching the pale window light.
