I kept myself busy, and not just with daydreams of a ginger vet with lips to die for. I played with the dogs, I organized invoices, I ordered some new supplies, I kept busy. And I daydreamed. Oh boy, did I daydream.

Lucas was pulling a double shift at the hospital, but he’d texted and asked if he could come by after work. Who was I to say no to that?

The day went on like so many do, unremarkable. I focused on things like making sure there was a bottle of wine in the fridge, that there were tiny umbrellas stocked behind the tiki bar in case we wanted to try our hand at a new cocktail, that his favorite kind of tortilla chips were in the pantry. That any unruly hair south of the Mason-Dixon line had been dealt with.

Then late in the day, after dinner, I got a strange call from a frantic woman on the Our Gang line. Her thick accent coupled with her crying made it difficult to understand what she was saying at first, but it soon became clear what she was reporting. She’d seen one of the Our Gang flyers in town. She needed help, but had been too afraid to reach out before. She knew a guy who was involved in dog fighting, but until she’d visited the site herself, and actually saw the condition of the dogs and where they were being kept, she hadn’t felt moved to action. Until now. She gave me an address, several times, of a compound on the outskirts of town where she said they were keeping fight dogs, pit bulls. The guy who was in charge of the dogs was headed out of town for a few days, and the dogs would be alone. Unprotected.

I instantly hung up the phone, got in the car, and headed out.

I should have known better than to go pick up a dog alone on an anonymous tip, but the woman sounded so desperate on the phone that I didn’t want to waste any time.

Call Lucas. Don’t be a fool; call Lucas.

But I didn’t. And when I walked into that shed and saw those dogs, I knew I was in way over my head.

I counted eleven dogs, all mixed breeds and pit bulls. Chained to boxes or posts, with no food and barely any water. And the smell. I had to cover my nose against the filth they were living in. And not living in—because although I tried my best not to see it, there were two that hadn’t made it.

The fighting ring was built into the wall in the back. Built high, with—oh my God—seats all around. People would watch as these dogs fought, sometimes to the death.

First thing I did? I called the police. The next thing I did? I called Lou, who told me to wait in the car and he’d call animal control. I was on my way back outside to wait until the authorities arrived . . . but then I heard it. The dogs were so riled up, barking so loud, that I almost didn’t . . . but there it was again. A whimper.

I moved toward the ring, closer and closer, my feet moving without my brain because I knew I shouldn’t be there, knew I should wait for help, knew that I wasn’t ready for something like this . . . and there it was.

Lying on his side, torn, shredded, was a blue-gray pit. Breathing shallow, blood . . . so much blood. Eyes mostly rolled back, but still aware.

Without knowing what I was doing or a thought to the consequences, I climbed over the plywood railing, landing next to the dog. He was in such bad shape that he didn’t even flinch, which meant he needed help fast.

Tearing my sweatshirt off, I wrapped him as best I could, and struggled to lift him. As he whimpered once more I began to talk to him, and to myself. “Okay, buddy, let’s get you some help, okay? Come on, sweet boy, let’s get you out of here.”

He weighed at least fifty pounds, and as carefully as I tried to balance him in my arms, he slipped a few times, making me readjust my carry. He whimpered each time, and it was taking everything I had not to lose it.

I kept talking to him as I moved through the warehouse, not seeing the blood trickle down onto my legs or seep into my tank top, not seeing the other dogs that were still barking and pulling at their chains. I kept my eyes on the eyes staring back at me. I was undoubtedly hurting him—didn’t they always say when someone is really hurt, don’t move him? But I couldn’t help it; I couldn’t leave him there. I needed to do something, anything.

I could hear the sirens approaching as I made it out to my car. I knew the other dogs would be okay, and I’d be at animal control the very next morning lobbying for every single one of them—the ones that were still alive—and I’d bring all of them back to my ranch.

But right now I had this guy in my arms, and I was going to take care of him myself. Not even bothering with the cage, I managed to get the SUV’s front passenger door open and pull a blanket from the backseat. Setting him down carefully, still wrapped in my sweatshirt, I made him as comfortable as I could, and then I drove like a bat out of hell for the Campbell Veterinary Hospital.

Five minutes before we got there, he stopped whimpering. One minute before I pulled in, he stopped breathing. Screeching into the parking lot, I pounded on my horn, taking up the two emergency spots by the entrance. Miguel saw me through the glass door and immediately ran out to help.

“Get Lucas! Right now!” I yelled, running around to the passenger side.

“Do you need some help with—”

“Just get him!” I leaned across the dog, who still wasn’t breathing. I tried shaking his collar, to get a reaction—nothing. Just limp. “Come on, come on, sweet boy, we’re here.”

I picked him up like he weighed nothing and ran into the waiting room, searching, looking for . . . there he was, coming out of the back room with Miguel hot on his heels. His face went white when he saw me, wild, covered in blood and shit and now tears, because he wasn’t fucking breathing anymore!