Page 47 of Call It Serendipity

As I reach the bottom, the silence doesn’t last long—this time filled by the phone’s ring drifting out from the kitchen. I quicken my pace to reach it in time, lifting the headset from the receiver and answering the call.

“Hello?”

“Lucy, honey, so sorry to disturb you but your father and I are in a bit of a pickle.”

My mom’s voice carries through the speaker with the faint sounds of the shelter behind her. It’s as if I’m there with the clanging of metal dog pens and soft whimpers echoing off cement floors.

“You’re not disturbing anything, what’s up?”

“We are the only two here today—Sam called off sick and we can hold down the fort just fine, but a call came in.”

I tense, knowing all too well what these calls mean. An animal is in trouble. Twisting the cord of the phone around my index finger I ask, “What’s the call?”

“Puppies, abandoned in a box on the side of the road.”

My eyes cut to the kitchen window, and I watch leaves scatter across the yard on a sharp autumn breeze. They must be so cold and scared; a lump forms in my throat. “I’m on it,” I say softly. “What’s the address?”

“Is there anyone that can go with you? Is Claire home?”

I cradle the headset between my ear and shoulder and cross over to the junk drawer. There’s a rattle of miscellaneous items as I pull it open, quickly locating the notepad and a pen. “No, Claire is at work,” I say, flipping to the top sheet to take down the puppies’ location. But there’s already something written on that top page. In my handwriting from just a few weeks ago. Jake’s phone number. “Actually, Mom, I know someone I can bring with me.”

“I just don’t understand how someone could leave puppies on the side of the road like this,” Jake grumbles, his voice a pitch lower than I’m accustomed.

“It’s awful,” I agree. “And sadly, this isn’t my first roadside recovery.”

I tip forward and peer up through the windshield of his truck. The clouds are heavy with the threat of rain and darkening by the minute. “I just hope this weather holds off. They’re already so vulnerable but if their box floods or they get swept away…”

My throat clogs with concern before I can finish the thought, and I pull my wool coat tighter around me.

“We’ll get to them,” he assures me softly, reaching over and squeezing my hand.

“Thanks for coming with me.”

His hand tightens around mine again. “Thanks for calling.”

It was the first time I initiated anything, and it felt more right than I imagined. When I saw the phone number jotted down in that moment, I couldn’t imagine calling anyone else.

I steal a glance his way and shove down the worry of what that could mean.

The road winds through the foothills, taking us farther out of town and closer towards the bruising indigo sky. And all the way, he never withdraws his hand.

Hope sits tentatively in my chest, a balloon prepared to either take off or deflate, as we inch closer. We’re only a few minutes from the bridge described in the call, a few minutes from where the box had been left.

Then the downpour begins.

Violent drops make a harsh patter against the truck’s roof and windshield. They’re splattering so thick that even with the wipers at full speed, the distinct red and orange fall foliage is instead a blur of harvest colors.

The image of tiny puppies huddled together and shivering in this horrible storm flashes through my mind. But we’re nearly there. And as Jake maneuvers the truck around a bend in the road, they come into sight.

“There!” I lean forward, jabbing a finger out at the brown cardboard box sitting precariously tilted—down toward the river—on the sloped side of the road.

Parking on the shoulder, the truck is barely stopped before I jump out and hurry down to reach them. Wind blows the rain sideways, drenching me thoroughly as I kneel and peel back the water-logged flaps.

Inside are six little balls of fluff. They vary in coat color, something I’d expect from an accidental litter, but they all have the same adorably droopy ears and rounded bellies. I just hope the round bellies are puppy fat rather than a parasite.

“How are they?” Jake asks, crouching low by my side.

Rain drips off the bill of his cap, splashing into the box below, and he quickly turns it backwards to lean in for a closer look. They seem to answer him, letting out little whines and yips.