Avery Rhiannon's Arc

Chapter 3 of 17

Avery's eyes dropped to the dog. He was holding one paw just off the floor. A thin red line ran along his leg. The man saw her look and spoke first. A tree fell by the river, he said. They had run hard to reach the gazebo. The dog must have caught it on something in the brush. Avery knelt slow. She held out her hand and let the dog smell her. His tail thumped again. The man's grip on the collar eased. She slid her worn leather bag from her shoulder and opened it on the dry boards. Wound cream, gauze, small scissors, a folded cloth. Tucked at the side, a little bag of treats. She worked quietly. The dog leaned into her shoulder as she cleaned the cut. She talked to him low and even, the way she always did. When she finished wrapping the leg, she gave him two treats from her palm. The man watched her hands, not her face. That helped. She did not feel read. She felt useful. Rain still hammered the gazebo roof. The man cleared his throat. The cottage was too far in this wind, he said. But the old white barn was close, just past the slope. Warm enough, dry, and big enough for all three of them. He waited. Avery closed her bag, stood, and nodded once. She followed him out into the rain.