They left the newborns at the clinic under heat lamps, watched by a nurse and the rehabilitator was already on her way. Dr. Maren did not want Luna walking, but the dog became frantic when Ava tried to leave without her. In the end, Luna rode in the back seat wrapped in a towel, her head resting weakly against the window. Her eyes stayed open the entire drive.
The fields behind Ava’s cottage were soaked. Water sat in the tire tracks like dull glass. Dr. Maren carried a medical bag, and Ava held Luna’s leash short, afraid the dog would collapse if she pulled too hard. Luna did not go to the potting shed. She passed it without looking inside. Instead, she led them beyond the broken fence, through wet grass, and toward the drainage culvert near Hollow Creek.
Ava had walked there once and hated the place immediately. It smelled of stagnant water and rusted metal, and blackberry canes grew thick around the concrete pipe. As they got closer, Luna began to shake. Then Ava heard it. A faint cry from somewhere inside the dark mouth of the culvert. Dr. Maren held out a hand. “Stop,” she said. Because beneath that cry was another sound. A low, warning growl.