Page 38 of Hot Under the Collar

She shook her head. “Mama was right to not trust me.”

“It’s not your fault,” he repeated. “Twig’s a fighter. We’ll figure this out.” He wrapped her and Twig both in his arms.

By mid-afternoon, she could feel the anxiety building in her blood. Twig was still lagging, but not despite their best efforts. Every hour had brought a new creative idea. Position Twig at the best nipple Mama could offer. Swap him in more often during feedings. They even tried a supplemental bottle, in the hopes they could just bottle-feed until he made it through whatever this was, only to find Twig was uninterested and unable to latch on.

Leo tried to take over, tried to ease her mind. But even when she disappeared from the guest room to answer a work email or prep something for O’Donnell’s, her heart and nervous head kept pulling her back. It felt like checking a pot on the stove every thirty seconds, terrified she’d look away the one moment it boiled over.

“I think this is bigger than us,” Lynne finally admitted aloud.

“Call Nina?” Leo suggested. “Just to ask?”

She nodded in agreement.

It felt like her phone rang forever before Nina picked up. “Hey, Nina. It’s Lynne again. I don’t want to be dramatic or waste your time, but…”

Leo paced as she reported everything they’d witnessed and tried. The slowly declining weight, Twig’s cooler body temperature, weak feeding, and lack of stool or urine. At first, Nina hummed in agreement, assuring her sometimes things happened. But the more details Lynne gave, the shorter and firmer Nina’s replies became. Lynne tried to keep her face as neutral as possible when she noticed Nina’s tone change.

“Okay, this is beyond normal runt lag,” she finally said. “I’m calling Dr. Hart.”

“Who?”

“The only vet I know who might be willing to drive out to Autumn Ridge tonight. This needs intervention. No promises—but I’m calling.”

She advised they keep Twig as warm as possible while they waited for a text from either Dr. Hart to say he’d arrived or Nina, saying no one was coming.

Lynne hung up the phone. A chill ran up her spine and she shivered. Leo was still hanging nearby on the half-conversation he overheard, clearly just as stressed as she was. She relayed what Nina said and watched as his expression grew as serious as hers. She was relieved but also afraid. If a vet was needed tonight, this was serious. She could see Leo already mentally rearranging his evening, his week, ready to stay as long as it took. And suddenly she was so happy to have him still here, so glad he didn’t go back home the first chance he got.

“It’ll be okay,” he said, taking her shaking hand in his.

They both went to the guest bedroom to hover around Twig, fuss with the heating pad, watch the clock. Lynne’s thumb traced idle circles over Twig’s fur as she counted breaths and listened for her phone, trying to believe Leo’s “It’ll be okay” more than she believed her own fear.

16

Leo (Now)

Leo stared down onto Main Street from Lynne’s apartment window when headlights swept through and paused in the middle of the street. There was no one else, so it made an illegal U-turn and navigated back to an empty, metered parking spot. A man with glasses and a thick mop of hair exited the vehicle before dipping into the back seat for a stethoscope and bag. He pulled his phone from his back pocket.

“I think it’s him,” Leo said when he turned to Lynne.

She’d been sitting with Twig and the heating pad on her lap for the past hour, trying to still her legs each time she grew nervous. She nodded, counted Twig’s breaths, tried not to say too much.

Leo moved for the front door and raced down the stairs. He rounded from the corner of O’Donnell’s just in time to see Dr. Hart’s confused expression. The man tensed, as if he expected Leo to demand his wallet.

“Hey. Nina’s friends.” Leo raised his empty hands in reassurance. “We’re upstairs. This way.”

Dr. Hart immediately relaxed and followed him. Lynne had moved Twig and the heating pad back to the guest room with the other cats before he got back. Fred was sitting on the floor, ears perked up. In the pale overhead light, Leo could see Dr. Hart was a little rumpled from the long drive, his scrubs wrinkled and covered in fur from the knees downward. On his chest, etched in white, was “Dr. Nolan Hart, DVM.” He walked past Lynne and bent down near the litter, greeting them with gentle words. Mama’s ears perked, and when he told her he was here to check on Twig, she immediately rose and rubbed against him, as if she understood.

“So I’m guessing this is the little guy?” he said, reaching for Twig where Lynne had set him.

Lynne turned to Leo and covered her mouth, unable to speak. She was already tearing up and twirling her pendant between her fingers. “Yeah, that’s him,” Leo said.

Dr. Hart skipped the small talk and started his hands-on exam, walking them through what he was looking for each step of the way. Gums, hydration, responsiveness, temperature. He didn’t tell them a prognosis, though.

“Nina said his weight’s been down?” Dr. Hart asked.

“Yes,” Leo replied. “Dropping the past 24 hours or so.” He showed Dr. Hart the notepad where they’d been tracking all the weights since bottle-feeding started, admitting they both forgot to weigh the kittens last night.

Dr. Hart didn’t seem too bothered by the admission. “Feeding schedule?”