Bear ended the call without responding, leaving a smear of Atlas’s blood on the screen. Then he noticed his floor.
Red footprints stained the wood, but it wasn’t just Atlas’s blood. He was bleeding, too. A shard of glass the size of a quarter was embedded in the side of his left foot, sticking out near his heel.
He hadn’t felt it. Hadn’t registered the pain, the cut, any of it.
“Dad.” Logan’s voice was quiet. Steady. “You need to put shoes on.”
Bear glanced over at his son. Fifteen years old, standing in a crime scene at—he didn’t know what time it was, sometime after midnight, sometime in the dark—looking at his father’s bleeding feet and a dog with a broken jaw and staying calm. Staying functional.
He passed the phone back to his son. “Call Lila. We need to get Atlas help.”
While Logan dialed, Bear crouched and slid both hands under the dog’s chest and hindquarters, lifting slowly and carefully. Atlas was seventy pounds of deadweight, his body gone loose in Bear’s arms, his head lolling against Bear’s chest. The dog’s breathing hitched, and he whined again, low and pained.
Bear held him closer. “I’ve got you. You’re okay. You’ll be okay and so will Greta.”
He carried Atlas through the living room, through the front door, down the porch steps, across the street. Logan followed, then raced ahead to the truck in their driveway, pulling the passenger door open.
Logan climbed into the driver’s seat.
Bear looked at him. “You’re not driving.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Logan—”
“Stop arguing and get in, Dad. I’ve been practicing at the ranch with Boone.” Logan started the engine. “Where’s the clinic?”
Bear had a second, just a second, to think,holy shit.His baby boy, the toddler he used to hold on his shoulders, was old enough to learn to drive. In less than a year, Logan would have his permit.
Then he shook it off and climbed into the passenger seat with Atlas. “East on Maple, left on Cedar, three blocks down on the right. White building, green awning.”
Logan put the truck in gear and backed out of the drive. He drove like someone who’d been doing it longer than a few weeks—smooth acceleration, clean turns, both hands on the wheel. Bear didn’t comment. Just held Atlas and counted the dog’s breaths and felt the blood from his own foot spreading warm and wet, soaking into the footwell’s carpet.
The streets were empty. Dark houses, dark yards, the occasional porch light throwing a pale circle onto the sidewalk. The clinic appeared on the right, and Lila’s truck was already there, parked at an angle near the front door with the headlights still on.
Logan pulled in beside her and killed the engine.
Bear shoved the door open and slid out with Atlas in his arms. His left foot buckled when he put weight on it, and he caught himself against the truck, Atlas’s weight shifting in hisgrip. The dog whined, and Bear adjusted his hold, cradling the big head against his chest.
Lila met them at the door. She moved fast, her hair loose and her jacket half-zipped over her pajamas. But at least she’d been smart enough to pull off boots. She reached him just as his foot gave out again.
“I’ve got him.” She slid her arms under Atlas, taking the weight easily despite her petite size, and Bear let her. Let the dog go into someone else’s hands because Lila could help him, and Bear couldn’t, and holding on would only waste time.
“Go find Greta.” She turned, already moving back toward the clinic door with Atlas limp in her arms. “I’ll call when I know something.”
Bear watched her go. Watched the door close. Watched the lights come on inside, bright and clinical through the front windows.
He limped back to the truck.
Logan was still in the driver’s seat, both hands on the wheel, staring straight ahead. Pale, scared, but holding it together.
He looked so adult in that moment.
He glanced over when the passenger door opened. “Is he going to be okay?”
“I don’t know.”
Logan swallowed hard. “What about King?”
