Still no answer from Rudge.

Jenner shut his cell phone and continued pacing the waiting room.

Maybe he should go in? He was medical, she’d let him stay.

But she wouldn’t want him there, either. He’d done autopsies with family members present, and it was something he never wanted to do again.

Family members—he hadn’t even given the dog a name! Anyway, he didn’t know if he could stand seeing that.

He sat. There were stacked copies of Dog Fancier and Show Dog World on the side table, but nothing…normal.

“Jenner.”

Maggie Craine stood in the doorway, dressed in black and gray. Her hair was loose, spilling onto her shoulders; Jenner thought it looked contrived, like she’d taken the time to style it just so, not because she’d hurried to the shelter.

She looked down at Jenner, then took the cigarette from her mouth and exhaled through pursed lips. She said, “You look like shit. Have you seen yourself?”

He shook his head. “You didn’t have to come.”

She stuck the cigarette back between her lips and sat next to him. She rummaged through her big orange Kate Spade beach bag, then pulled out a packet of wipes. She murmured through the clenched cigarette, “Sit up.”

He sat straight, and looked into her face.

Maggie dabbed the damp tissue around his forehead and temples, around his eyes, washing him down like a cat grooming a kitten; there was a faint smell of rubbing alcohol.

“Chin up.”

Jenner tilted his head back and she wiped his neck. She leaned back and looked at him critically. “Better.”

Not once had she made eye contact.

“Oh, God, your arms! I can’t do those—that’s too much.” She stood. “Come on—go into the bathroom and wash yourself down, Jenner. You can’t sit around bloody like that.”

He stood, a little dazed. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Okay. I should finish this outside anyway.”

He was exhausted. He watched her sweep out of the waiting room, then he walked slowly to the bathroom. The first rush of pure adrenaline was settling, and now Jenner felt every step, and every step hurt. He didn’t understand her.

In the tiled quiet of the bathroom, Jenner looked himself over. He was like one of those cartoons where a black cat gets dipped in flour; his hair was black with soot but Maggie had left his face glowing white.

His arms weren’t funny, though, torn up and smeared red and brown; no wonder she’d complained.

He washed his arms gingerly. His shirt was soaked in blood; it stuck to him, clung to his face and neck as he fought through the pain to lift it above his head. As the garment peeled off his back, it tethered and caught; Jenner kept pulling at it, wincing each time something popped out of the skin and the cloth tore free. He heard dry gravel sounds as shrapnel fragments hit the floor.

And then the shirt was off. He turned slowly; the left side of his back was leopard-spotted with shrapnel punctures and scratches, many now freshly bleeding, some with torn tags of metal still embedded. Staring at his back in the mirror, he tried to stretch back to reach them, but the pain got worse, and blood began to leak out, and he stopped.

His hands were bloody again; Jenner leaned against the sink, dazed, trying to decide what to do.

There was a tap at the door. Maggie.

“Come in.” He didn’t turn.

He heard a gasp and straightened. In the mirror he saw Deb Putnam peeking around the door. She froze, and her eyes filled with tears. She stepped inside, and closed the door shut behind her.

“Oh, Jenner, my God! I’m so sorry…”

He kept rinsing.

“I’m okay, Deb. It could’ve been worse—they’re just cuts.”

“Jesus, Jenner—they’re worse than that. Wait here.”

She disappeared, came back a couple of minutes later with some towels, a spray bottle of Bactine, a kidney-shaped steel bowl and a scrub suit top. She was wearing a flannel shirt and jeans; she took off the shirt and tied it around her waist. She had on a ribbed white cotton tank top underneath, when she stood next to him, it felt close, intimate.

“Bend over the sink. I’m going to clean you up.”

“How did you find me?”

“Saw it on the news, went by the motel. Bobby Gentry from P.F. Fire and Rescue said you’d run away with the dog; I figured you’d bring him here. How’s he doing?”

“They’re looking at him now.”

Deb tore open a paper envelope and removed a sterile forceps. She soaked one of the towels in warm water, and he did his best to stay still as she softly wiped his back, and then went over it slowly, plucking out small chunks of metal, dropping them in the bowl, then wiping the skin clean.

He tried to say something, but she shushed him. “Let me finish.”

After about ten minutes, Jenner couldn’t stand anymore, so Deb dragged in a chair from the waiting room, turned it so the back pressed against the sink, and had him straddle it facing the sink; she talked to him in the mirror.

She smiled. “My dad once got peppered on a turkey shoot. My mom picked the birdshot out of his back in our garage, then hosed him down in the garden before she let him inside the house.”

Jenner flinched as she pulled out one of the larger pieces.

“I’m sorry, but the surgical tape isn’t very sticky—it’s not gonna hold that well. Call me tomorrow, I’ll redo the dressings. It’ll give us some time to chat about Maggie Craine—I have to say, I didn’t see that coming. How long have you been seeing her?”

“I don’t think ‘seeing’ is the right word. Are you almost finished?”

“As a matter of fact…” There was a quiet click as Deb dropped a fragment into the bowl. “That’s the last of it.”

She washed his back down, ignored his wincing as she patted him dry. She stepped back to look at his wounds; she whistled quietly. “I hope you like scars—you’re going to have some nice ones.”

Her voice was thick, and when he looked in the mirror, Jenner was surprised to see that Deb was crying again. She saw him see her, and looked away.

She grabbed the Bactine. “Okay, Romeo. This is going to hurt you more than it hurts me.”