“Chloe, what happened to you—”

“Lucas, you need to do something, you need to do something! I can’t, he can’t, you need to do something, he’s not—” I rambled, tripping over my words as I held the dog close.

“Miguel, tell them to set up in the OR and clear exam one. And tell my father to meet us in there,” Lucas directed, guiding me toward the exam room. He slipped his hands under the dog’s head, cradling him as he took him from me and laid him on the table.

“He was . . . there was this compound . . . outside of town . . . and I got this call and . . . so many dogs . . . and then I heard . . . in a ring . . . and he was crying, and I got him . . . I got him out . . . but then he . . . he stopped—”

“Honey, I need you to breathe, okay? You did so well, but I need to listen to this guy now, okay? Shhh, Chlo, shhh. You did great,” Lucas said, his voice soothing, moving swiftly around the table, talking fast now to Miguel. My sticky hands clenched open and closed as I watched Lucas begin to do CPR, listening to his chest, trying to clean off some of the blood. Bite marks, gash marks, all along his flank, the side of his mouth was torn, and . . .

Marge was pushing me down into a chair, handing me a Dixie cup as I watched them wheeling the dog down the hall, Lucas and Miguel and his father. They disappeared behind a swinging door into a room where there was a stainless steel table and some bright lights and instruments and . . .

I threw up all over my shoes.

“Oh, sugar,” Marge murmured, and handed me a towel. I wiped off my mouth, and she held me against her. And we waited.

Blunt-force trauma to the head. Heavy blood loss and internal hemorrhaging. Multisystem failure. Dead.

I stayed until they finished working him over. I stayed while Lucas and his father filled out a report to file with animal control. I stayed while Lucas finished up the last little bit of his shift—and then I stayed the hell away from my SUV. Even walking by it with Lucas guiding me through the parking lot, I saw the crazy parking job, the bloodstained blanket on the passenger side, and I let his hand in the small of my back tell me where to go. His truck. My house.

He kept up a steady stream of words for a while, words like you did all you could, and you did so much more than most, blah blah blah. About halfway up the hill, he stopped talking and let the silence soothe.

I’d cried myself out; now I just felt numb. I plodded up the walkway, Lucas behind me, then beside me as he unlocked the door and held it open. I went straight to the bar, poured myself a long shot of something brown, and knocked it straight back. It burned, it really burned, but after the second shot my fingers and toes started to tingle, then warm. Lucas stood on the other side of the bar, just watching.

“You did great tonight, Chloe. You know that?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I mumbled, looking down, noticing for the first time how disgusting I was. I was covered in . . . stuff. “Jesus, look at me. You too.” His scrubs were also covered in . . . stuff.

“Comes with the territory,” he said quietly, looking me in the eyes.

“Yeah, well, I don’t like this territory.” Tears welled up again.

“You should get cleaned up,” he said. He was right.

“So should you.”

“I’ve got clean clothes in the truck. I’m fine.”

“Good, then you can put them on after you take a shower. Guest bath, down the hall. Towels in the closet.” I pointed, and shuffled down the hall to my room.

Satisfied he was doing as I asked, I headed into my bathroom and closed the door. Stripping down, I wrapped everything in an old towel and set it outside the door. I was throwing everything away, including my shoes. Everything.

Turning the water as hot as it would go, I stepped under the spray and steeped for what seemed like hours. My muscles were bunched and tightened; I was tense and felt stretched out like a rubber band. I just let the heat pound down all around me, looking until the water was no longer stained pink. Then I scrubbed until I was squeaky clean.

I climbed out and wrapped myself in my soft robe, shoving my wet hair back. I felt better because I was cleaner, but I still felt ready to come out of my skin. I paced in a circle in my bathroom. I thought about Lucas’ face when I came into the clinic.

Before the clinician kicked in, he’d been terrified. Because he thought I was hurt? I thought about how I must have looked, half covered in blood, half out of my mind. He was worried about me, about what might have happened to me.

And then watching him, his tender care for the dog, the purpose of every action, the utter command he had of the situation. He was incredible. And, he was leaving. In a little over a day. For twelve weeks.

Hot tears came again, running down my cheeks. My nights and weekends were leaving. And who was I kidding? My days too.

I paced faster, wrapping my arms around myself, then swinging them wildly. I was antsy, I was angry, I was frustrated, I was empty, I was . . . aching. Literally aching. I needed. I wanted.

I left my room, went down the hall, heard the water still running in the guest bath, and opened the door without thought. I could see his shape through the glass door, foggy and fuzzy but there, just on the other side of the glass and steam.

Had I taken even half a moment to stop and think about what I was about to do, I would have stopped. I would have backed away, put on my pajamas, made some coffee, and been waiting with toast when he came out.

I slipped out of my robe, opened the glass door, and moved in behind him.