“Hold still.” Big Swiss leaned over Greta and yanked up her nightgown with one hand. The fingers of her other hand dug into Greta’s arm. “Stop moving.”
Greta was drenched, she knew that, but only on the outside. Inside, she was a janky space heater about to catch fire.
“I think you might be hemorrhaging,” Big Swiss said, a little nervously. She placed her palm on Greta’s forehead. “You have a fever.”
Okay, not free. Or not, cough, cancer-free. Obviously, there was some growth inside her, and it had ruptured, and hopefully it was malignant and untreatable, because if Pi?on died, how was she going to live? The shadows swimming on the ground made her dizzy, and it finally occurred to her to look up at the sky. It was the vultures. About six of them were circling, their mouths wide open.
“We need to get to the house now,” Big Swiss said. “Can you walk?”
Greta picked up Pi?on, careful not to touch the bullet wound, and held him like a baby. She’d never held him like this, never once in six years, because he never allowed it. He couldn’t stand to be cradled, but his body was limber and slack, and he was wide awake and blinking at her with renewed interest, as if meeting her for the first time. He seemed enchanted by her, and she knew he would be all right if she got him to the hospital.
“Greta,” Big Swiss said. “Can you stop crying? Can you look at me?”
Greta’s hair was curtained around her face. She didn’t feel capable of looking at Big Swiss, not without protection of some kind. A blanket would be nice, for old times’ sake, but Sabine would be better.
“Sabine!” Greta yelled. “Sabine!”
“Is there any chance you’re having a miscarriage?” Big Swiss asked.
Greta spun around and hit her, hard enough to knock her down. She’d done it without thinking, but she wanted to do it again, and she would have if she hadn’t been carrying Pi?on. Big Swiss stayed on the ground, holding her jaw.
Now four identically dressed men were jogging in their direction. One of them, a kid in his twenties, ran straight up to Big Swiss and helped her to her feet, even though Greta was covered in blood and cradling a limp dog.
“I’m okay,” Big Swiss said, brushing herself off. “Thank you.”
“？‘I’m okay’？ Yeah? What about ‘Her dog has been shot’？ Any idea who did this? Was it you? Who are you?” Greta said.
“My name’s Rick?” he said. “I’m from next door?”
The firehouse. Of course. They were firefighters. She wondered which one of them manned the air-raid siren, and why wasn’t it going off right now, with a killer on the loose?
“Ma’am?” another guy said. “Can you tell me what happened?”
“Someone shot my dog,” Greta said, her voice shaking with terror. “He’s still out there somewhere.”
The guy nodded as if he got this all the time. “A lot of small-game hunting in those woods behind you. Small and large game. Deer, bears. We saw a bear just yesterday. But somebody may have mistaken your dog for a hare. He was probably drunk.”
A drunk hunter? A bear? A hare? It was Keith, obviously. He was probably hiding in one of the deer stands this very minute, covered in camo and face paint, observing them through the scope of his rifle.
“Are you hurt, ma’am? Do you need to go to the hospital?”
“It’s my dog’s blood,” Greta said, though anyone could see that it wasn’t.
“I’m texting the vet,” Rick, the young one, said. He pulled out his phone and started typing. “He lives just down the road. I’m giving him your address. You live with Sabine, right?”
Greta nodded. Of course, they all knew Sabine. She’d probably thrown darts with them, played pool, shot guns. And then there was that time she’d been burning trash and had accidentally caught the field on fire.
Big Swiss thanked the men, and then she turned to Greta and began talking to her like she was a dog. “Let’s go. Come on. Move.”
While they walked, Greta tried not to look at Pi?on in her arms, lest she start wailing again. She kept her eyes straight ahead and focused on the house. As usual, every single light was on—Sabine never turned off a lamp or lantern, even during the day—and so the house always looked cheerful and welcoming from a distance, and full of people, and like everything worked, and Greta pretended that this was true.
But the house was empty—Sabine wasn’t back yet. Greta placed Pi?on on his dog bed in the foyer and covered him with his favorite blanket. He was breathing hard through his nose. Big Swiss passed her a bottle of water, and Greta wet Pi?on’s lips and winced as she poured a little on the wound. She thought about running a bath for him.
“Go get changed,” Big Swiss said. “I’ll watch him.”
In her room, Greta removed her bloody nightgown. She pushed her underwear down to her ankles and stepped out of them. They resembled a twisted mouth, the pad a swollen, mangled tongue. She wasn’t bleeding anymore and felt only mild cramping, but she was tempted to jump up and down to see what would happen. Instead, she pulled on a pair of jeans and a long sweater.
A small truck turned into the driveway, the vet. She’d been expecting an ambulance, for some reason, with sirens, and a team of EMTs. Where was the stretcher? The IV? But it was just one guy carrying a canvas tool bag and dressed entirely in spandex, like a professional cyclist. It wasn’t a look Greta had ever approved of—she hated it, in fact—but she couldn’t take her eyes off him. She was so distracted by his outfit, his shaved calves, his overdeveloped forearms, she didn’t catch his name. In one swift motion, he lifted the dog bed and Pi?on off the floor and transferred them to the only piece of furniture in the foyer, a large, wooden antique desk, on top of which sat a porcelain lamp and a vase holding a spray of lily of the valley.
“I’ll get him stabilized,” he said. “What’s his name?”
“Pi?on,” Greta said, and blushed.
He gave Pi?on two shots: a painkiller and an antibiotic. He took Pi?on’s temperature and listened to his heartbeat. He examined the wound, said that dogs got shot all the time around here, usually with pellet guns, but that this was likely a .22, then he shaved the area with an electric razor, carefully cleaned and dressed the wound, and gave Greta a bunch of supplies: more painkillers and antibiotics, a tube of ointment, a plastic cone collar.
“After tomorrow, leave the wound open. Clean it once or twice a day like I showed you, and don’t let him lick it. Keep the collar on him.”
“Leave it open,” Greta repeated. “So the bullet can find its way out?”
He blinked at her kindly. He was so calm and patient. That wasn’t how it worked, he said. He kept looking at her bangs as he talked, and Greta wondered what they looked like. Not great, probably.
“The wound needs air,” he said. “It’ll heal faster.”
So I’ve heard.
“Otherwise, he’s in very good shape. His lungs sound clear and he’s not overweight.”
“Well, he’s an athlete,” she said, and adjusted her bangs. “Like you.”
He smiled. “He’ll probably be fine. Just keep an eye on him, and call me if the wound smells bad or doesn’t look like it’s healing.” After a pause he said, “Would you like me to report this to the police?”