The air in the mudroom was unnervingly still. Dr. Aris, a man who had spent thirty years treating everything from Prize Bulls to feral mountain curs, didn’t move. He had been kneeling on the cold linoleum for ten minutes, his stethoscope pressed against the thick, silver fur of the smallest kitten. John and Fiona stood in the doorway, their hands intertwined, watching the vet’s face for any flicker of hope. But as Dr. Aris sat back, he didn’t offer a reassuring smile.
His face was a mask of sheer, pale disbelief. He didn’t look like a man who had found a common virus; he looked like a man who had just seen a ghost. His hands, usually steady as stone, trembled slightly as he tucked the stethoscope away. He looked at the three creatures—who were watching him back with those haunting, round pupils—and then at John.
“I’ve never seen a heart rate like this,” he whispered, his voice cracking. He stood up abruptly, moving toward the door as if he needed to escape the room. “I can’t treat this here, John. We need to get them to the clinic immediately before they stop breathing entirely.” John looked out the window at the white abyss of the storm, the drifts piling high against the glass. The roads were gone, buried under feet of shifting snow.
He felt a cold knot of dread tighten in his chest, wondering just how they were going to get through that frozen wasteland. Things weren’t just bad; they were looking deathly dire.