The storm had hit just after midnight, rattling the windows hard enough to wake Ava from a shallow sleep. Luna was not on her blanket. A muddy smear marked the kitchen floor, and the back door stood slightly open, nudged wide by the wind. Ava had run outside with a flashlight, calling Luna’s name into the rain. The garden was a sheet of silver water. The apple trees bent in the wind. Somewhere beyond the shed, a high, thin cry rose and vanished.
She found Luna under the workbench in the potting shed, panting hard on a nest of old towels. Six newborns lay against her, slick and helpless. Ava had dropped to her knees, sobbing with relief, and counted them twice. One, two, three, four, five, six. At the time, she had noticed only the miracle of it. Luna was alive. The babies were alive. The storm had not taken them.
But now, in the vet’s exam room, sharper memories returned. Muddy paw prints near the shed door. Scratches on the bottom of the frame. A trail of wet leaves dragged across the floor. And one more thing. The four darker newborns had been drier than the two pale ones. Ava had not understood that then. Now she did not know if she wanted to.