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Anne struggled to find a dry spot on her last remaining tissue. “It had to happen sometime. We’ve had him for nine-and-a-half years—that’s pretty good. Most Irish Wolfhounds only live five to ten years.”
On their arrival, the clinic appeared deserted. But there was a single light burning inside. “They said there might be someone here until ten o’clock, and it’s almost ten now. If not, we’ll have to come back tomorrow,” said Emily.
They rang the night bell and waited for several minutes before they heard the sound of movement inside. A light flipped on and the door opened. A small bespectacled man who looked to be at least seventy years old stood in the doorway. “Can I help you?”
“We’re here about Gandalf? The Irish Wolfhound?”
“Oh. The Wolfhound. The car accident. I’m so sorry. Come in.”
He walked ahead of them down a long dim hallway.
“Are you the doctor?” asked Anne.
“Yes, I’m Dr. Williams. This used to be my practice, but I sold it to a great young doctor named Christine Stephenson. I’m just here to check on the surgery patients one last time before bed.”
“And what about Gandalf?” Anne asked, dreading the answer.
He opened a door. “He’s still in here. I thought you’d want to see him.”
Anne’s heart fell as she passed through the doorway with her girls. Gandalf’s limp body lay sprawled across an operating table. Blood was smeared on his fur, although it was obvious someone had tried to clean him up. The IV tube had been disconnected and was hanging loose. Anne looked at his still body and tried to connect this image with the joyfully rambunctious dog Gandalf had been.
Though she meant to be strong for her daughters, a sob escaped. She leaned over his head and kissed him, her tears wetting his fur. Emily was weeping audibly. Charlie threw her arms around him, crying out, “Gandalf!”
Emily rubbed his head and kissed his nose. “He’s still warm. He must’ve just died!”
Anne heard Dr. Williams behind her. “He’s not dead—I thought you knew. He’s just so big I can’t move him by myself. I was trying to figure out what to do when you rang the bell.”
“What? He’s alive?” asked Anne.
The girls began sobbing anew and kissing Gandalf all over.
Anne grabbed Dr. Williams and squeezed him in a bear hug. “Thank you, thank you!”
He blustered a bit and patted her back. “It wasn’t really me. It was Dr. Stephenson that did the surgery. Of course, I taught her everything I know.”
Anne’s phone rang, and she answered quickly, thinking it might be the hospital.
“Hello?”
“Anne?” Steven Gherring’s voice sounded anxious. “You didn’t call. I—I was worried.”
She froze. With the news of the accident, Anne had blocked out all other thoughts. But now, hearing his voice, a flood of memories and images and emotions invaded her head.
She remembered. Everything.
He’d come to her apartment. He’d kissed her. And she’d kissed him back. Like a starving woman.
He must think she’d be willing to sleep with him. Is that what would’ve happened if the phone hadn’t interrupted them? She remembered the deep ache that had threatened to overwhelm her senses. Somehow, she couldn’t control herself around Steven Gherring. How far would she have gone if Charlie hadn’t called? What would she have done if her father hadn’t been in a near-fatal car accident?
“Anne? Are you there?” Steven's voice was insistent, even frightened.
“I—I—” Suddenly the room narrowed. Anne knew she had to sit down, or she would pass out.
“Emily, take this.” She handed the phone off and sat down, dropping her head between her legs. She could only hope Steven didn’t spill the beans about what had happened between them.
She heard muffled voices, and eventually felt a hand on her back. She tentatively lifted her head, glad when the room didn’t spin.
“Mom, are you okay?” Emily asked.
