Tripod

By Elizabeth Anne Hale      

I shielded my glasses from the drizzle and speed-walked down the street. Neon lights reflected on the slick concrete. Swirls of pink, green, and blue shuddered as my boots splashed through the puddles. I slipped my hand into my pocket and fingered my wallet.

The wealthy could afford to “misplace” money for a good cause—in this case, nice clothes to impress the master at my apprenticeship interview tomorrow. Higher class meant higher ground, less flooding, and less poverty. I appreciated the money more than they did.

I tugged my worn trench coat tighter around my narrow shoulders as a hydrocar whirred down the shallow waterway. The wake splashed over the curb and soaked me waist-down. I groaned. What self-respecting store owner would let me drip on their perfect floors?

A honk from behind and a yip! pierced the patter of the rain. I whirled around, droplets flying from my humidity-frizzed curls.

The hydrocar sped away, leaving the waterway frothing. Against the curb, half-submerged, lay a dog.

I gasped and ran over, then dropped to my knees beside him with a splash.

Rain dripped down the collarless dog’s speckled fur. His chest heaved, and red stained one of his hind legs, leaking into the water.

I gagged. Tears and raindrops muddied my glasses.

The dog’s dark brown eyes locked on mine. A small whimper escaped his snout.

I stood and swiped my damp sleeve across my glasses. I had to do something. Squinting through the smears, I found a red neon sign across the street: emergency veterinary clinic.

I scooped the dog into my arms and winced as he whimpered. Don’t think about the blood. I peered both ways before splashing across the street. Water leaked into my boots as I floundered onto the sidewalk and through the clinic’s automatic door.

The raven-haired receptionist waved me in. “Good morning. What’s your emergency?”

My arms burned from the weight, but I gasped and jerked my head down. “This dog was hit by a car.”

The receptionist paged for assistance, and two nurses emerged from the back rooms, easing the dog out of my trembling arms. I avoided looking at the red drops on the floor, but even with wet glasses, I couldn’t escape the dog’s pitiful stare. As the nurses took him into the operating room, his big brown eyes stayed on me.

I stood dripping in the middle of the hair-covered floor. Wet dog smell permeated the air. How had the driver overlooked him? How had I overlooked him?

The receptionist extended a thin tablet to me. “Please fill out this form for your dog.”

I blinked. “Oh—he’s not my dog. I think he’s a stray.”

She frowned. “Somebody has to pay for his surgery.”

I touched my wallet. It held several hundred dollars. Fine clothes would improve my first impression. I could get an education in environmental engineering and possibly help fix the perpetual rainstorms. But I couldn’t cover his surgery and buy the clothes.

“What will happen to the dog if nobody pays for it?”

The woman hesitated. “I’m afraid he’d have to be put down.”

My breath caught in my throat like a punch in the neck. The dog’s pleading brown eyes filled my mind. I swallowed. The money will still be helping someone.

I reached for the tablet. “What do I need to do?”

***

I tinkered in the lobby of Atmospheric Answers’s engineering headquarters.

With a spring for cushion, Tripod could use this peg as a leg replacement. If I had a strap—

“Kytt Windthorn, Dr. Nimbus will see you now,” the secretary called.

This is it. I dropped the gadget into the bag Tripod slept in, took a deep breath, and stepped into the office of Dr. Nimbus.

He raised an eyebrow—either at my muddy trench coat, or at the cone-wearing dog peeking out of my oversized duffle bag.

“I hope it’s okay that I brought Tripod.” I adjusted the hefty weight of the bag on my shoulder. “He just had his leg amputated yesterday, and can’t move much yet.” Blueprints pinned to the walls suggested how to reduce the world’s excessive rainfall. I forced myself not to stare.

Dr. Nimbus stood, adjusted his neat blue jacket, and rounded the desk. “I suppose it’s all right, Miss…”

“Kytt Windthorn.” I shook his rugged hand and smiled despite Tripod’s lazy breaths reminding me I had another mouth to feed. I settled the bag on the floor and straightened my unruly updo. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“You as well.” His salt-and-pepper hair resembled Tripod’s speckled coat. He knelt to scratch behind the dog’s ear. “He’s an amputee?”

“Yes, sir. Hit by a hydrocar.” I’d taken him home despite the vet’s recommendation that he stay overnight. I couldn’t afford that.

Tripod’s tail slapped the inside of the bag drowsily, and he rested his head with a sigh.

Then, Dr. Nimbus touched the gadget beside Tripod. I winced as he picked it up and turned it over.

“That’s nothing,” I said quickly, hands itching to snatch the crude piece of technology out of his skillful hands.

He glanced at me and weighed it in his palm. “Is this a prosthetic leg? You know dogs adapt well to limb loss, right?”

It was hardly a prosthetic—just a peg leg with a spring in the foot for some cushion. “I—Yes, sir. I just wanted to see if I could do it.” I fiddled with my sleeve. “It’s just an experiment.”

Dr. Nimbus handed the gadget back. “You wanted to help.”

Tripod’s tail wagged. Good boy.

Dr. Nimbus smiled. “I wouldn’t call a leg you built from scratch ‘nothing.’ It’s crude, yes, but it has potential. As do you.”

My breath caught in my throat. I stared at him in disbelief. “Thank you, sir.”

He waved for me to sit and slipped behind his desk again. “You’re welcome. Now, let’s talk about that apprenticeship.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Elizabeth Anne Hale is an entrepreneurial young writer who brings stories to life any way she can, whether it’s by talking, painting, or writing. She writes hopeful and humorous stories with the goal of encouraging and entertaining young people without “dark and spicy” content. She’s an Author Conservatory student who spends her free time reading, feeding her never-satisfied guinea pigs, and trying to keep that one Chaotic Neutral character from running away with the plot.