Page 9 of At First Spark
I pick up the phone at the next stop sign and toss it onto the passenger seat face down beside the folder.
The road narrows after the town, curving past a line of older homes and thick hedges before turning quieter. Fewer businesses. More space. The inn sits on the far edge of the historic district, which means I get a longer approach than most people probably bother noticing. I notice all of it.
The overgrown verge. The faded split-rail fence has one section sagging. The old live oaks lean over the road as if they’ve been watching people come and go for a hundred years.
My father would’ve loved this drive. That thought slips under my ribs before I can brace against it. I tighten my hands on the wheel.
The problem with grief is that it isn’t linear, no matter how many well-meaning people say it softens with time. It waits. Changes shape. Hides in unexpected places. Then one old tree on one quiet road in one town you’ve never lived in catches the light in the exact right way, and suddenly your chest feels too small again.
I blink hard and keep driving. Something moves in the shoulder ahead. Small. Fast.
I ease off the gas automatically. The shape appears again near the ditch line—a scruffy, dirty blur of fur and ribs and frantic movement. Dog.
“Shit.”
I brake hard and pull onto the shoulder, gravel spitting under the tires. My heart jumps into my throat as I throw the car into Park and push the door open.
The dog startles at the sound and darts toward the road.
“Hey—hey, no.” I step out fast, both hands up. “No. Don’t do that.”
He freezes about ten feet away, half in the grass, half in the dirt shoulder. Small, maybe twenty pounds, maybe less under all that matted fur. One ear bent. Tail crooked at the base like it healed wrong or never healed at all. His coat is some shade of sandy brown under the mud. His ribs show. His eyes are huge.
He looks like he’s decided the world is dangerous, and he’s probably right. Cars don’t come out here often, but it only takes one.
I crouch slowly, trying not to spook him. “Hey, buddy.”
He bares his teeth. It would be more effective if he didn’t look like a windstorm could take him out.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “I know. I wouldn’t trust me either.”
I glance back at my car. My purse sits on the passenger seat. Other half of my protein bar in the console. Half a bottle of water.
I move slowly, never taking my eyes off him as I back toward the car. He tenses, ready to bolt.
“It’s fine,” I say softly. “You can hate me and still let me help you.”
I get the door open, dig the protein bar out with shaking fingers, and pull it free of the wrapper. The dog’s head lifts instantly, nostrils flaring. Food wins over pride every time. I break off a piece and toss it a few feet away from him.
He doesn’t move at first. Then hunger gets louder than fear, and he darts forward, grabs it, retreats. I throw another piece closer. This one he takes faster. The third piece lands almost within arm’s reach.
He hesitates. I stay crouched. Quiet. Still.
The road behind me sits empty. Wind moves through the grass. Somewhere overhead, a gull calls from farther inland than it has any business being.
The dog steps closer. One paw. Then another. Mud cakes around his legs. A raw patch near his flank looks irritated but not deep. His nails are too long. One of his paws lifts oddly when he puts weight on it.
He takes the next piece from the dirt just in front of me and flinches back. I don’t reach yet. The fourth piece I hold in my palm.
“Come on,” I whisper.
He stares at my hand like it personally offended him. Then his stomach makes the decision for him. He edges forward, neck stretched, body still ready to run, and closes his mouth around the food. His nose is cold against my palm. His whiskers twitch.
I move before I can second-guess it, sliding my other hand gently under his chest and lifting. He writhes once. A low growl vibrates against my arm. Then he goes stiff and trembling.
“It’s okay,” I say, though it very much is not okay, and we both know it. “I’ve got you.”
He smells like wet dirt and fear.
