Page 49 of High Intensity

I don’t really think Wolff would’ve told anyone, but it’s possible the fact he’d spent the night at my place hadn’t gone unnoticed. Despite the fact women often get the reputation, I’ve discovered men can be horrible gossips.

“Fine. Something did happen, but I don’t want to stand in a hospital hallway and discuss this with you. I promise I will spill all, the first decent chance I have. But before I go in to see Hayley, did a guy by the name of Emiliano Rojas stop by here? He just intercepted me in the parking lot.”

She shakes her head, her eyes narrowing on me as her expression turns serious.

“Who is Emiliano Rojas?”

“He claims to represent the girl’s uncle.”

I tell her about my brief interaction with the guy and closely watch her expression get even more grim. That doesn’t give me a good feeling.

“Was he alone?” she asks sharply.

“As far as I know. The car had those dark-tinted windows so I can’t say for sure, but I only saw him.”

“But you saw him get out?”

I nod and am about to say yes, when I replay the scene in my head and realize something I hadn’t clued into before.

“Shit. He got out of the passenger side.”

“You’re sure?”

I nod. I never saw him get back in, and assumed he was alone.

“I think the vehicle was a Cadillac and I got part of the license plate.”

I pull up the quick note I made and relay the partial plate number, which she jots down in the small notebook she has tucked in her breast pocket.

“I’ll pass it on to Ewing, he can do a search.” Then she waves her pen under my nose. “I’ll let you know what I find out, but don’t think for one minute I’ll be forgetting about your promise to fill me in.”

“So noted,” I mumble as I pass by her with a wink.

Hayley’s back is turned when I walk into the room, and she doesn’t move when I pick up Nugget and set him on the bed. I assume she’s asleep, so I take a seat in the recliner in the corner of the room and pull out my phone, checking my emails and social media.

In the past few days, sitting in this hospital room with a non-communicating child, my online presence—which was maybe a quick scan once a week before—has increased exponentially. I’m actually finding quite a few groups that interest me. Specifically, about training rescue dogs for different assistive purposes.

One group focuses on support animals for children on the autism spectrum, and I’ve been reading through some of the posts. I’ve learned these animals are basically trained tomeasure the specific needs of a given child, which can be as unique and varied as grains of sand. This makes their training more complicated and time-consuming, which in turn leads to long waiting lists for these dogs.

I’d be interested in picking the brain of someone who trains these dogs for this purpose. I’m curious to know if it would be possible to train rescue animals who already have developed the types of traits required to meet those special needs. I don’t even know if it’s something I could, or would, want to tackle, but I can at least put the bug in someone else’s ear.

If this were possible it would mean the world, not only to those kids, but to the dogs as well.

“What’s his name?”

I startle at the sound of her voice, it’s soft, a little bit hoarse from lack of use, and deeper than I expected. Her back is still turned but she has lifted her head, peeking at me over her shoulder.

“Nugget,” I tell her, forcing myself to stay calm, even though I want to jump up and down. “He’s a cross between a Maltese and a poodle.”

I watch as her thin fingers brush through the dog’s hair before drifting lower to the awkward bend in his underdeveloped back leg.

“Did he get hurt?”

“No,” I assure her. “He was born like that. His deformed legs slow him down a little, but not much.”

“Oh…”

Seemingly satisfied with my answer, she lies back down and I am once again looking at her back. Part of me wants to prompt her to talk more, maybe ask her a few questions, but I don’t want to risk her clamming up again. I have a feeling patience will net better results in the long run.

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