She had never asked for help. In her own mind she called that independence, sometimes pride, and neither word carried judgment, only description. She had raised Mike the same way: handle it yourself, don’t complain, figure it out. And he had. He had learned. Then he stopped coming as often, and she told herself: he’s busy, he works, he has a family. That was true. But not the whole truth, and the difference between those two things turned out to be larger than she had thought.
Gray scratched at the crate, insistent now, with a little irritation in it. Eleanor went over and picked him up. He was noticeably heavier than a week earlier and immediately started pushing with his paws, trying to get somewhere farther on.
— Easy, — Eleanor said. Not to him. To herself.
The package came on the Sunday bus. Gene, the driver, brought it to the gate the way he sometimes did for folks out in the hollow, knocked twice, and left without waiting. Inside the bag were two quarts of goat’s milk in a plastic bottle—cold, tightly capped, beaded with condensation—and a package of special formula with a fox cub printed on it, orange and bright-tailed, clearly designed to inspire confidence. Taped to the package was a sheet torn from a notepad, written in Mike’s fast, slightly right-leaning hand: “Formula for wild young animals. Pet store recommended it. Instructions are on the box.”
Eleanor read the note. Turned it over, looked at the blank back, and read it again. She put the milk in the refrigerator. She studied the formula for a long time. The print on the side was too small to read without glasses, so she had to go get them and come back. Ratios, temperature, feeding frequency for animals at different ages. All clear enough, with pictures. There was also a note in small print: switch gradually, mixing old food with new over five to seven days.
He had gone to a pet store. Stood at a counter and explained to a clerk: wolf pups, this age, this situation, what do I need? That was not the same thing as “looked it up online in five minutes.” That was going somewhere and asking a real person.
Eleanor folded the note in half and opened the desk drawer—the one with the electric bill, the insurance papers, old letters. She laid the note on top and closed the drawer.
Outside, evening was coming on. At the end of May it stayed light late, and the sky was still bright with a pink band near the horizon. In the crate both pups were breathing softly. Eleanor sat at the table and thought that on Wednesday she might call Mike. She took an old address book from the dresser drawer—blue cover, one corner worn through—and set it on the table beside the phone. She did not open it. Just set it there.
Quiet turned away from the dropper, simply turned his head aside and laid his muzzle on his paws. Eleanor brought the dropper closer. He didn’t move. She touched his nose: dry, hot, like a stone in the sun. His belly, when she pressed lightly, felt a little firmer than usual, as if something in there had settled and refused to move. Gray nudged Quiet with his muzzle once, then again, and got complete stillness in return.
Eleanor opened the notebook. Wrote the time and symptoms in dry, even handwriting. Then below that she wrote “Vet” and added a question mark. She looked at that question mark longer than necessary.
There was a retired veterinarian in town, Dr. Harris. He saw animals out of his house now—everything from chickens to horses. Eleanor had never liked him, dating back to some old disagreement from years ago that no longer mattered much. At the moment it mattered not at all. She went to Frank’s for the number.
Dr. Harris picked up after the first ring, with the ready tone of a man used to calls that come only when something needs doing.
— Eleanor Carter, — he said briskly, recognizing her voice.
— Wolf pup, — Eleanor said, wasting no time on pleasantries. — About five weeks old. Hasn’t eaten since morning, nose is dry, belly a little bloated. Was fine before.
— What’ve you been feeding him? — Dr. Harris asked, and his voice shifted into work mode.
— Goat’s milk. Three days ago I switched to special formula. Frank’s cow got sick again, no milk at all, so I had to do it fast, — Eleanor said.
— Fast is bad, — Dr. Harris said. — Their digestion’s like a newborn’s. Any sudden change is stress. Even when you’ve got no choice, it’s still bad. Listen carefully. Rice water, thin, from well-cooked rice. Small amounts, no more than one teaspoon every hour. Don’t skip. Stop the formula for now.
Eleanor wrote without asking him to repeat himself…
