The Lost Saints of Tennessee by Amy Franklin-Willis

boots. She wears sunglasses despite the lack of sun outside.
    â€œJesus Christ, this place is hard to find.” She pushes the glasses on top of her head and wraps me in the scents of Virginia Slims and perfume that smells like freshly cut grass. “What’s going on, Zeke?”
    She pulls back and grips my shoulders. “How’s the dog?”
    A sense of relief floods through me, warming the muscles cramped from hours spent in the metal chair. I am not alone. The whole ugly story wants to spill out. But I won’t let it. Not yet.
    â€œHe’s unconscious. They’ve got him on an artificial respirator.”
    Rosie’s eyes, the same topaz color as Carter’s and our father’s, widen. “Well, shit.”
    I turn my head away for a moment, trying to keep it together.
    The closing of a door in the back echoes out to the waiting area. Dr. Hickman walks down the hallway toward us. His green scrubs shirt is splattered with stains—a multicolored collage of yellow, black, and dark red. Rosie reaches for my hand, squeezing it hard.
    â€œTucker woke up. About five minutes ago.” The vet wears a bemused expression. “Surprised the hell out of me.”
    The earth tilts and I fall, caught by the same chair I sat in expecting news of Tucker’s death. Questions float in my mind but I can’t form them out loud.
    â€œWill he be okay?” Rosie asks.
    â€œI don’t see anything at the moment that makes me worry. But we need to keep him here today for observation.” He runs a hand down his face, trying to wipe the exhaustion off of it. “You’re one lucky owner. I didn’t have a lot of faith the dog was going to pull through.”
    â€œI didn’t think either of us was going to make it through,” I say. My whole body aches, the nerve endings tingling and raw. Rosie’s hand makes small comforting circles on my back.
    My words of thanks to the vet sound hopelessly insufficient.
    â€œThank me after you see the bill. Gina will be out with it in a minute.” Dr. Hickman’s expression softens. “Tucker’s a good dog. Keep that codeine locked up, okay?”
    Rosie’s questioning gaze burns down on me.
    â€œNot now, okay, Rosie? Right now I need to see Tucker and then I really need to sleep.”
    My sister inherited our mother’s laser look—the one where she could narrow her eyes at you and cut through every­thing. I keep my gaze steady on the floor.
    â€œI need some sleep, too,” she says finally. “See the dog and then let’s get out of here.”
    Gina emerges from the back and walks behind the coun ter, punching numbers into a calculator. Punching a lot of numbers into the calculator.
    â€œIt all comes to $2,750.”
    Tired as my brain is, it quickly figures the one credit card in my wallet cannot take a hit as big as that.
    â€œWe take Visa,” Gina says, trying to be helpful.
    I slowly remove the wallet from my back pocket and go through the motions of looking through it. Before I’m done, Rosie slides her own Visa card onto the counter.
    â€œI can’t let you do that.”
    â€œIt’s done.” She waves a hand to dismiss it. “Your little unapproved Smoky Mountain getaway has cost you your job back home, so pay me back when you get another one. It’s a good thing I like that dog.” She nudges me with her elbow. “Go see Tucker.”
    The dog lies stretched out on a stainless-steel table, not moving, looking dead. Bits of black are stuck in the soft fur of his muzzle. The charcoal. When I place my head near his, it is wonderfully warm. Alive. My boy made it through. We take in a couple of big breaths together. Inhale. Exhale. That’s all it is. Inhale, exhale. We’re still here together. The crater in my chest contracts, gratitude filling the hole part way.
    The dog’s eyes open. He tries to get up, ready to leave this strange place with