Page 62 of I Hate You More

“Was he in here unattended?” Ruby persisted. This was one of the wheelchair-accessible units, so the counters were a few inches lower than the modern standard. It would have been very easy for a dog to get up on his hind legs and enjoy an all-you-can-eat buffet. Especially if he’d been on a diet for the better part of the past two months. “Mrs. Orson, we need to find him.Now.”

Her worried tone had its intended effect. Mrs. Orson blinked and uttered a faint “He’s in the bedroom, most likely. Or out back. He can’t have gone far.”

Ruby sincerely hoped so. She was no expert on dogs or marijuana, but she knew that an entire loaf ofanythingcouldn’t have been good for him. Dashing down the hallway, she pushed open every door she passed. The bathroom and linen closet were empty, but when she reached the bedroom at the back, it was to find a heavy, unmoving lump behind the door.

“He’s in here,” she called. “Wheezy, love. You have to move. Or roll. Or slump a few inches. I can’t get in.”

Since she’d never used the termsWheezyandlovein the same sentence before, she could only assume he hadn’t understood.

“Wheezy, you beast. You devil. You greedy, addlepated nuisance of a—”

“Why are you yelling at him?” Mrs. Orson drew close and pressed her face against the narrow opening. “Wheezy, my pet. Ruby doesn’t mean it. Listen to what she says. Help us open the door.”

He didn’t respond to either approach. Although Ruby was tempted to chalk this up to his unwillingness to conform to accepted standards of behavior, she knew better. They’d come too far, she and Wheezy. He was the reason she got up every morning with a smile on her face. He was why she was suddenly exploring career options and feeling excited about her future. He was responsible for introducing her to a whole new group of people who saw her not just as a pretty face but as someone worth getting to know.

With a flash, Ruby realized what she had to do. She needed help, and she needed it fast—and there was only one person in the world who could be relied upon to provide it, no questions asked.

She tossed Mrs. Orson her cell phone. “Call Spencer Wilson. Tell him we need him right away. I’m going to have to go in through the window.”

“Spencer Wilson?” Mrs. Orson echoed. Her fingers flew as she scrolled through Ruby’s contact list. “Are you sure he’s in here? I don’t see his name.”

Ruby paused just long enough to call back, “He’s listed under Porcupine,” before darting out to the back door.

Although the house’s countertops and bathrooms were wheelchair-accessible, no one had thought to lower the bedroom window to make a convenient escape—or entrance—route to the house. The window she wanted was located above a colorful row of chrysanthemums, which made a picturesque setting but also rendered Ruby’s task a lot more difficult.

It just so happened that she was allergic to chrysanthemums.Severelyso. Her mother had made the discovery when eight-year-old Ruby had been presented with a bouquet after a pageant win. The rash that covered her arms, neck, and face had taken weeks to clear up—weeks in which she’d been forced to remain indoors and out of sight so no one would see the splotchy mess of her skin.

“Wheezy, you’d better really be sick and not just high as all get-out,” she muttered as she located a cement birdbath and started dragging it toward the window. She did her best to avoid touching the flowers, but there was no way to get the birdbath in place without brushing a few of them away. If history planned on repeating itself, the itching would start any minute now. “If all you get out of this are some profound insights on the existentialism of man and a case of the munchies, I’ll never forgive you.”

She was aware of the women in the book club filing out to watch as she pushed out the window screen and began jimmying her body through. A few of them shouted words of encouragement. Darla gave her rear end a push. And Sally, after Ruby had to twist and turn to get her body through without dislocating any of her major joints, said, “I told you she’d be flexible.”

She didn’t have time to reply. The moment she landed on the beige carpet with a soft thud, she realized that Wheezy wasn’t enjoying his high. He was awake but barely, his body slumped against the door as though he’d never be able to move it again. His brown eyes were glazed in a way that barely registered her presence, and drool fell out of the side of his mouth in huge, globby rivulets.

“Oh, you poor honey,” she cried, falling to her knees in front of him. She had no idea what she was supposed to do in this situation—if she was supposed to make him throw up or give him water or hold his paw until the worst of it was over, so she did the only thing she could think of.

She shifted her body as close as she could get and held him. His head lay passively in her lap, which was all the sign she needed to know that he wasn’t okay. Wheezy would never willingly lower himself to cuddle with her.

With a quick prayer that Spencer would get here soon, she began murmuring soothing, nonsensical words, keeping the dialogue going even when the itching began.

* * *

House calls had always been Spencer’s favorite part about being a veterinarian. After graduation, he’d toyed with the idea of setting up a rural practice that would require him to spend the majority of his time on the road and in the homes of those he served, but Eva had convinced him to set up shop in the city instead.

He was glad she’d done it, but he still enjoyed the simple pleasures of meeting an animal on his own turf, to provide care in an environment that was comfortable and familiar. Every pet, from a tarantula to a potbellied pig, showed to best advantage at home.

Except, of course, Wheezy.

“How much marijuana did he consume, and how long ago would you say it entered his system?” he asked as walked into the bedroom where the group of formidable old women had directed him. He wasn’t the least bit surprised to find the golden retriever in a state of psychoactive lethargy, his breathing and heart rate slowed as the drug took effect, but hewassurprised by the state of the woman holding him in her lap.

Ruby looked—and smelled—as if she’d been through war. She’d obviously been at work for most of the day, her scrubs wrinkled and her hair once again pulled back in a tousled ponytail, but that wasn’t what struck him most. For reasons he had yet to understand, her hands and arms were covered in a series of splotchy red welts that seemed to be working their way up her neck and toward her face. For reasons hedidunderstand, the scent of dog urine floated around her like a cloud. Wheezy had obviously lost control of his bladder at some point.

“No one seems to know the exact amount, but from the way the other loaf of bread smelled, I’m guessing quite a bit—and it was medical-grade, so it’s the strong stuff. He ate it before I got here, which was a few minutes after five.” This information was rattled off efficiently and in a manner that did Ruby’s scrubs justice. When she glanced up, however, it was with the expression of a woman who was prepared to hear the worst. “He’s really out of it, Spencer. I don’t think he’s aware that I’m here.”

“He knows.” Spencer had no doubts on that score. The dog was curled up in her lap, soft yaps escaping every time she lifted her hand from his head. Her presence was the only thing keeping him from falling into a drug-fueled panic. “No—don’t get up. I’ll examine him where he is.”

The examination didn’t take long. Ever since the legalization of cannabis and cannabis-related products—especially edibles—the number of accidental canine overdoses had been growing. Dogs never could resist fresh-baked goods, regardless of what was in them. While dangerous, eating them was rarely life-threatening, which seemed to be the case here.

“There wasn’t anything chocolate in the bread, was there?” he asked, glancing up at the woman who’d come in to watch the exam take place. From the look of concern on her well-lined face, he was guessing this was the infamous Mrs. Orson.