“Then take the money.” The words are clipped, short. “Sign the papers. Go back to your apartment.”
The coldness in his voice makes me flinch. “Wyatt.”
“Isn’t that what you want me to say?” He drops the scissors onto the metal tray with a clatter. “You have bills. I get it. Everyone has bills. But don’t act like you’re trapped into destroying what Jesse built. You’re choosing the easy way out.”
“The easy way?” Heat rises up my neck, my calm voice fracturing. “There’s nothing easy about this. I’m drowning. If I stay here, if I try to keep his half of the shelter, the banks will take it anyway. I don’t have the money to run this place. I don’t have the training.”
“I run the clinic.” His voice drops to a low, quiet command. “I’ve run it since Jesse left downstate. I don’t need your training. I need the land.”
“And how do we pay the property taxes? How do we pay for Atlas’s meds? For the food? For the repairs on the roof?” Istep back from the table, my hands trembling. “You’re living on donations and hope. A business plan built on hope is just a slow death.”
He walks around the table, his eyes locking onto mine with a fierce intensity. “It’s a sanctuary. And it’s the only thing keeping these dogs alive. The only thing keeping Jason alive. If you want to sell it for a clean slate, that’s your choice. But don’t ask me to tell you it’s okay.”
He walks to the sink and turns the faucet on. The rush of water fills the space between us, a loud, cold barrier.
I leave the exam room, my chest tight.
By afternoon, the sky outside has turned slate-gray. The light is flat, draining the color from the pines on the ridge. Jason finishes shoveling and leaves for the bunkhouse, his boots crunching through the crust of the snow.
Atlas lies by the wood stove in the clinic waiting room, his chin resting on his paws. I sit on the floor beside him, my back against the brick hearth, my fingers buried in his thick neck fur. He lets out a long sigh, his ribs expanding against my leg.
Wyatt comes out of the back corridor, a mug of black coffee in his hand. He stops when he sees us. For a moment, he looks like he might turn and walk back to the office. Then he crosses the room and sits in one of the plastic chairs opposite the stove.
He doesn’t look at me. He stares at the flames behind the glass door of the stove.
“Jesse didn’t tell me about you.” My voice is quiet. “Not your name. Not your face. I only knew he had a partner up here. A veterinarian he trusted. He called you Doc.”
Wyatt takes a sip of his coffee. The steam rises, dampening his eyelashes. “Jesse kept his life in pockets. Now that you’re here, it makes sense. He wouldn’t have wanted the dust from downrange settling on you.”
“Why?”
“You work a crisis line.” Wyatt sets the mug on the floor beside his boot. “You spend your days listening to people who want to die, trying to keep them here. Jesse never told me about you—never even mentioned he had a cousin. But looking at you now, I think he was trying to protect you. He probably feared his darkness would drag you under. He thought you were clean, and he wanted to keep you that way.”
The words hit my chest, a quiet ache opening behind my ribs. “He didn’t let me save him.”
“No.” Wyatt looks at me, his grey eyes open and raw in the dim light. “He didn’t. He made his choice before he drove downstate for Christmas. But he left you Atlas. He knew this dog. He knew what Atlas could do. I think he left him to you because he knew you’d need him.”
“Need him for what?”
“To hold onto.” Wyatt leans back slightly. “Jesse was a handler. He knew that when you’re slipping, you need something solid to sink your fingers into. Atlas is that solid.”
I press my forehead to Atlas’s head, my eyes burning. Jesse’s tags under my wool sweater feel heavy against my collarbone.
Jesse knew.He knew I was running, even then. He knew I was hiding behind my calm counselor voice, terrified of letting anyone close enough to hurt me if they left.
“He built this place for people like us.” Wyatt’s voice is very low, the gravelly grit returning. “Not just for the vets. Not just for me. He thought if we had a place where we didn’t have to pretend we were whole, we might actually get there.”
I look up, my hand still resting on Atlas’s neck. Wyatt is leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his face inches from mine. The anger from the morning is gone, replaced by a deep, hollow exhaustion.
“Wyatt.” My voice cracks. “I don’t want to sell. I don’t want to see this place cleared for a resort. But I don’t know how to stay. The debt is real.”
“We can find a way.” He reaches out, his large, scarred hand hovering over the floorboards between us before he presses his palm flat against the wood, inches from my knee. “If you stay, we’ll find a way to carry it. Together.”
The word hangs in the quiet room.Together.
It’s a promise I want to make. It’s a path I want to choose, even with the terror of the cliff edge rising up in front of me. I lift my hand, my fingers touching the edge of his palm. His skin is warm, the scar tissue rough against my fingertips.
I’ll stay,I want to say.We’ll figure it out.
