The leather seat of the car was cool against Estelle's legs, but panic was a hot coal in her chest.
Buster.
The realization hit her like a physical blow. She wasn't safe. She was leaving. And she was leaving him behind.
"No," Estelle whispered.
Eleanor was stroking her hair. "It's okay, baby, we're going home."
"No!" Estelle screamed. The sound tore from her throat, raw and sudden.
She shoved Eleanor away. The woman looked shocked, her hands hovering in the empty air. Estelle didn't wait. She scrambled over the expensive upholstery, fumbling for the door handle.
"Wait! Elara!" Arthur shouted.
Estelle tumbled out of the car, her knees hitting the gravel. She didn't feel the pain. She scrambled up and ran back toward the rotting trailer.
"Secure the target!" a bodyguard yelled.
Estelle ignored them. She threw herself onto the dirt belly-first, sliding under the rusted chassis of the trailer. It smelled of oil and dead rats.
"Buster!" she hissed into the darkness. She made a sound, a low, clicking whistle in the back of her throat. Click-whoosh.
From the shadows, a low growl answered.
A head appeared. It was a block of muscle and scars. Buster. A pitbull mix with one ear torn in half and eyes that had seen too many fights. He dragged himself toward her, whining low in his throat.
"Come on," she whispered, grabbing his thick collar.
"Jesus Christ!"
Estelle looked back. A bodyguard had his weapon drawn. The gun was black and matte and pointed right at Buster's head. A laser dot danced on the dog's nose.
"Drop the weapon!" Arthur roared from behind the wall of suits.
Estelle didn't think. She moved.
She threw her body over the dog. She wrapped her thin arms around his massive, muscular neck and buried her face in his fur. She squeezed her eyes shut.
"Don't shoot him!" she screamed into the dog's shoulder. "Shoot me! Don't shoot him!"
Buster didn't attack. He froze. Under her grip, his muscles were rock hard, vibrating with the urge to kill, but he didn't move. He pressed his wet nose into her neck.
Silence stretched. A long, elastic moment where the only sound was Estelle's ragged breathing.
Then, a soft mew.
A black cat, missing an eye, slinked out from a hole in the trailer floor. Shadow. He hopped onto Estelle's back, arched his spine, and hissed at the men with guns.
"Stand down," Arthur's voice was shaking. "Everyone, stand down."
Estelle opened one eye. The red dot was gone.
Arthur was standing five feet away. He was looking at her-curled in the dirt, shielding a monster of a dog and a broken cat-with an expression that looked like his heart was being ripped out through his ribs.
"They're... they're my friends," Estelle stammered, her voice small. "They're the only ones who don't hit me."
A sob broke from Eleanor, loud and wet.
A boy was watching from the window of the second SUV. He looked about fifteen. Harlen. He had headphones around his neck and a look of pure disgust on his face.
"We're taking the zoo?" he shouted through the glass. "Are you kidding me? That thing is a killer."
Eleanor walked past the guards. She ignored the mud ruining her shoes. She knelt in the dirt next to Estelle. She didn't look at the dog's teeth. She looked at Estelle.
"If you love them," Eleanor said, her voice fierce, "then they are Bridges. And no one hurts a Bridges."
Estelle's grip on the collar loosened. "Really?"
"Really." Arthur snapped his fingers. "Winston. Get the transport vehicle. The animals ride with us."
Estelle sat up. She put a hand on Buster's head. She whispered a single word, a sound that was barely a breath. Calm.
The dog's posture changed instantly. The hackles smoothed. The growl died. He sat, looking at her with adoration.
Arthur watched the interaction, his eyes narrowing slightly. He saw the bond. The raw, desperate connection between a broken child and the only creature that had ever shown her loyalty. It was a purity he hadn't seen in years.
As the handlers moved in with cages, a lawyer in a gray suit began moving through the crowd of neighbors, handing out thick white envelopes. Hush money.
Mrs. Miller stepped forward, wiping her hands on her dress, a greedy smile plastering her face. "I assume there's something for the caregiver? I fed that mutt, you know."
Buster lunged. He didn't bark. He just snapped his jaws, the sound like a bear trap closing, inches from Mrs. Miller's leg.
Mrs. Miller shrieked and fell backward into a puddle of oil.
Estelle didn't pull the dog back. She just watched.
The lawyer walked right past Mrs. Miller. He didn't even look at her. He handed the envelope to the person behind her.
"Hey!" Mrs. Miller yelled. "Where's mine?"
The lawyer stopped. He turned. "Mr. Bridges said the dog's judgment is final."
Estelle climbed into the car, pulling her knees to her chest. She watched Mrs. Miller sitting in the mud, empty-handed, as the tinted window rolled up, sealing the world away.
