I place my empty plate on the coffee table. At least my stomach is content. “I have to. I promised him I could get him back to full mobility, and I intend to keep that promise.”
“You’re that confident?” Anyone else would sound doubtful or condescending. Madi’s smile and tone are borderline admiration.
“I am. I’m good at what I do. And I think outside the box. I’m his best chance.”
She squeezes my hand. “I love that. And I’ve no doubt you’ll do it. So what’s your plan?”
I roll my eyes. The woman is a spreadsheet fanatic who won’t even go to the grocery store without a shopping list organized according to the aisles with cross-references to alternate items in case the place is out of something.
“Only to keep my distance as much as possible.” I shrug, trying to convince myself more than Madi.
She smirks. “But you’re a physical therapist, Hannah. How on earth do you plan to do that?”
CHAPTER 6
Hannah
For the past week, I’ve driven by the same rundown house on my way to work, and almost every time, I see this poor dog sitting behind a chain-link fence with the saddest expression, which says a lot. In my opinion, dogs are naturally happy unless you give them a reason not to be. And this guy looks miserable.
I swing my car to the side of the street and park in front of the house next door, which has neatly trimmed hibiscus bushes and a cluster of pigmy palms in the yard encircled with chucks of coral. This place appears pristine compared to the neighboring one, which looks more on the verge of being condemned.
When I get closer, Bandit—that’s the name that comes to me instantly because of the black-like mask on his face—wiggles up to the corner of the fence and looks at me with eyes as sad as he looked from the distance. Dingy white splotches of fur break up the dominant black and brown of his coat.
I lift my hand to his nose pressed through the fence. “Hey there, big guy. How’s your day going?”
When he licks my hand, I lean over the fence to scratch his head, down his neck to find no collar, and then lightly prod his upper back which is bony beneath his matted coat. He’s clearlyunderfed, and after a scan of the front walk and yard, I can’t find a water bowl. Maybe there’s one in the back.
But then I notice that Bandit isn’t picking up his back end. More like dragging it, actually. And my heart breaks. This guy needs help. Judging by the state of the house, I’m guessing the owner can’t afford to take him to the vet.
I walk along the fence to the gate, which is locked. Great. I can’t even knock on the front door to see if I can help. I rattle the metal gate. “Hello! Is anyone home?”
Bandit drags and wiggles his way to where I’m standing. I stroke his head again as I wait, searching for some movement in the windows that appear draped with sheets.
No response, so I shake the gate again and yell. “Hey, anyone home? Your dog needs help.”
Still no response, but I hear a door open and then footsteps coming from the house next door. An older woman walks down her front path, then toward me on the sidewalk. She’s carrying a bowl, too. “Are you looking for Marcus?”
I turn to face her. “You know him?”
She shrugs. “Know of him. He’s not the social type.”
I glance toward the house and mumble, “No kidding.”
“I’m Marnie.” She leans over the fence and holds the bowl for Bandit to drink. “I try to bring water over at least once a day for him. And a treat or two.” She slips two bone-shaped biscuits out of her pocket.
“Have you tried to talk to him?”
Marnie nods. “Once, right after I moved in a couple of months ago. He basically told me to mind my own business, using every cuss word known to man.”
I can’t resist smiling at Marnie’s sarcasm and matching her tone. “How wonderful.” I extend my hand. “I’m Hannah. I’ve noticed this guy all week and had to stop. He needs help. Something’s going on with his back end.”
She switches hands holding the bowl as Bandit continues to lap up the water. “I know. I even offered to take him to the vet, but Marcus won’t let me.”
“Is he home?”
“Probably, but he won’t answer. As I said, he’s not the social type.”
I carefully choose my words because I don’t want Marnie to think I’m judging her. “Did you, by chance, report him to the county?”
