Page 27 of Rescued By the Dog Trainer

"Got it." She turns without a second glance, stepping into the tack room and returning with the brass key before the other trainees turn their heads.

She hands me Barnaby's lead and gives me a clear directive. She shields my authority, protects my dignity, and gives me a way back into the room without exposing the PTSD flashback to the people I'm supposed to lead.

I step past her into the drafty corridor leading to the east shed, my boots solid on the concrete.

The temperature inside the generator shed is hovering near zero. I unlock the steel housing of the backup unit and unlatch the side access panel. The primary fuel filter is frosted over, an air lock trapped in the supply line.

I grab the brass wrench from the wall rack, loosen the air-bleed screw, and pump the manual primer button until raw diesel fills the glass bowl. I wipe the ice from the glow plug terminal and check the battery leads.

My hands are steady now. I set my right boot against the steel base plate, grab the heavy flywheel starter handle, and pull. Once. Twice.

On the third hard crank, the diesel engine catches with a heavy thrum.

The overhead emergency LEDs flicker to life, casting a warm yellow glow across the central aisle and restoring power to the heated kennel pads.

I stand in the doorway of the shed, my palm resting on the vibrating steel casing as the exhaust fan clears the fumes from the corridor.

Maren stands at the end of the aisle, setting the last hypothermia kit on the shelf. She doesn't look away as I walk up, her gaze steady in the yellow overhead light.

"You got the generator running fast." Her voice comes low, stripped of the flight deck bark.

"You held the room." My gravel voice hesitates, my jaw tightening as I meet her gaze. "You gave me time to breathe."

"A flight deck doesn't run on panic." Her tone stays even, free of pity. "It runs on assigned posts, Sergeant."

The corner of her mouth twitches—a quiet flash of humor as she throws military protocol back in my face.

The cold weight behind my ribs melts an inch. She didn't just step in; she covered my flank and protected my command without asking for an explanation.

By nineteen-hundred, the whiteout has swallowed the shelter yard.

I gather the group in the emergency bunk room above the tack office. The small wood stove in the corner crackles, throwing off a steady heat that smells of split birch and cedar bark. An enamel coffee pot sits on the iron top, steaming in the quiet room. Six cots line the timber walls, tight quarters, sleeping bags unrolled.

"Top cot is mine." Brody tosses his duffel bag onto the corner frame. "Babe sleeps on the rug."

"Top cot is for people who don't snore like a chainsaw." Sarah unrolls her sleeping bag on the middle cot while Tank settles at her feet. "Griff, tell him."

"Brody snores in three different keys." Griff sets two mugs of black coffee on the pine table while Chief rests beside him. "Nadia, you take the window cot."

"Deal." Nadia pulls off her dark wool cap, shaking her dark curls free as Zip curls up by the wood stove.

Maren steps away from the stove, holding two tin mugs. She walks across the floorboards and stops in front of me, extending a steaming cup.

"Black." She offers the mug, her fingers gripping the metal handle. "No sugar. That's how flight officers take it."

"Former NCOs take it the same way." I take the mug, my thumb brushing hers.

The heat of the tin moves through my leather gloves, a sudden, quiet warmth passing between us while the storm rattles the glass.

"Line checks are complete." I set the coffee mug on the pine table and pick up the clipboard. "Kennel pads are holding at sixty-five degrees. We start two-hour watch rotations at twenty-hundred."

I glance across the room.

Brody, Sarah, Nadia, Griff, and Maren stand around the table.

One cot is empty.

"Where's Montoya?" My gaze sweeps the room.