Page 20 of Brotan

Something crashes to the floor. Footsteps approach rapidly, then the door swings open. Maya stands framed in the doorway, wearing scrubs spattered with what looks like iodine, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, dark circles under her eyes. The animal scent intensifies—fur, blood, and the acrid odor of burned flesh—mixing with Maya's familiar vanilla perfume and the antiseptic tang that follows her everywhere.

"Crow?" Confusion draws her brows together. "What are you doing here?"

I hold up the takeout containers as an explanation. "Savvy sent food. You've been missing meals."

"Oh." She looks genuinely surprised, like the concept of someone noticing her absence hadn't occurred to her. "I've been busy."

Another whimper sounds from behind her—decidedly not human.

"You got a patient back there?" I ask, peering over her shoulder.

She hesitates, then steps aside. "Something like that."

The examination room has been transformed. A makeshift pen occupies one corner, fashioned from what appears to be repurposed equipment boxes and medical supply crates. Inside, a medium-sized dog with mottled brown fur cowers, bandaged paw held gingerly above the floor.

"What the hell?" My shoulders tense instinctively, a reaction to the unexpected presence of an animal. The beast inside me stirs—predatory instincts I've spent years controlling.

Maya closes the door behind me. "Tommy Wilkins brought him in yesterday. Found him limping near Silas's demolition site on Oak Street." She moves toward a small refrigerator and pulls out a bottle of water. Her movements are precise but weary, the exhaustion of days spent working alone evident in every gesture.

"You're not a vet," I say, setting the food on the counter. My jaw tightens as I glance toward the dog.

"Astute observation." She crosses to the pen and kneels beside it. "Nearest vet's an hour away, and Tommy's mom can't afford that kind of trip. Besides..." She glances up at me, a flash of the same defiance I saw in New York crossing her face. "I promised Hammer I'd treat anyone in need, human or not."

Human or not. Three simple words that cut deeper than they should.

The dog watches her approach with wary eyes, backing himself further into the corner.

"What happened to him?" I stay rooted in place, my body rigid with uncomfortable awareness.

"Burns." Her voice softens with professional sympathy, the same tone she used when treating my wounds. "Walked through what looks like hot ashes—maybe from a burn pile at the demolition site. Paw pads are damaged, but they'll heal with proper care."

I stay back, watching her gentle movements as she coaxes the dog closer to the pen's edge. "Doesn't look intentional," I offer. "Probably a stray looking for food scraps."

"That's my assessment, too." She glances up at me, a tired smile touching her lips. "Actually, he reminds me a bit of you."

"Excuse me?" My fingers curl into fists, then relax—the pattern of tension and release that's become second nature since the camps.

"Fighting help every step of the way." She makes a series of soft clicking noises at the dog. "No matter how much I try to treat him, he puts up a fight. Acts tough when he's hurting."

"I don't see the resemblance," I mutter, though something in my chest tightens at the comparison. She sees too much, this human doctor.

She stands, brushing off her scrubs. The overhead light catches in her auburn hair, revealing hints of gold I hadn't noticed before. "I need to change his bandages and reapply the burn ointment. Since you're here, you can help."

"I don't think so." I take a step back. "Dogs and orcs don't mix."

Maya ignores my protest, already gathering supplies. "Hold him for me. It'll go faster with two people, and you've got the strength to keep him still."

"I'm not a nurse." I take another step back, hands fisted at my sides. These hands have broken bones, spilled blood, and ended lives. The dog's paws are already burned—what if I grip too hard? What if the beast in him challenges mine? Some things aren't meant to be handled by creatures like me.

"And I'm not a vet." She gives me a pointed look. "Yet here we are." Fatigue shadows her face, but beneath it burns the same determination that made her stand between me and an ER full of humans who wanted me dead.

Before I can formulate another protest, she's scooping up the dog, who immediately begins squirming before depositing him directly into my arms. The animal freezes momentarily, startled by the transition, eyes wide with panic.

Something shifts in my chest. A protective instinct surges up, unfamiliar and powerful. The dog trembles against me, and I adjust my hold instinctively, cradling him more securely. His fur feels rough against my calloused fingers, yet somehow fragile.

"Just keep him still," Maya instructs, seemingly oblivious to my internal turmoil. "This won't take long."

I sink onto a nearby stool, holding the dog as she begins unwrapping the bandages. The animal whimpers as the gauze pulls away from raw flesh, but doesn't struggle against my grip. His heartbeat thrums against my forearm, rapid and afraid. The acrid scent of fear rolls off him in waves—a smell I've known since childhood. One that orcs detect more keenly than humans ever could. It reminds me of the camps, of huddled children trying not to attract attention. It's the scent of an opponent just before the knockout shot.

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