Helping Hands

  “That’s tough.” Brenna sighs. “He’d have to find a place for the pony, probably with the help of a pony- or horse-rescue group. I remember my mom talking about a retirement ranch for horses once, but I think that’s in Arizona. It could take weeks or longer to find him a new home.”

  “Could he stay at your house until a permanent place is found?” I ask.

  Brenna shakes her head sadly. “Our barn is already filled with rescue critters. Mom had to send an injured hawk across the state to a rehab center that had room.”

  “David’s going to the horse show with his father tomorrow,” I say. “They could ask around there, find a local place that can help.”

  “His dad promised to take him to the horse show?” Brenna asks.

  “Yeah, he was really excited about it,” I say. “He spent half the day bragging about how incredible his dad is with horses.”

  Brenna frowns. “Well, Mr. Hutchinson might be good with horses, but he’s terrible with his kids. He’s always making big promises to David, and he never follows through.”

  Jules and I exchange glances. Our father doesn’t make much money, but we can always count on him to tell us the truth, and to be there when we really need him.

  “That’s why we all cut David a little slack,” Brenna adds. “He can be a little annoying sometimes, but he has a heart of gold. Let’s get back to Buster. Which one of you is better at researching on the Internet?”

  We’re both pretty good, so we decide who gets to use the clinic’s computer with the traditional Vet Volunteers method: a quick game of rock paper scissors. Jules shoots scissors, I shoot rock, and I get to spend the next half hour in charge of the keyboard and mouse with the girls watching and commenting over my shoulders. By the time Mr. Fedor steps in, we’ve started a list of rescue societies to contact, even though they are all at least a thousand miles away from Ambler.

  “Any news?” Mr. Fedor asks.

  “I’ll go back and ask for an update,” Brenna says.

  “How about that cup of tea now?” Jules asks.

  “That would be nice,” Mr. Fedor says as he lowers himself into a chair. “You kids are sweet to take such good care of an old guy like me.”

  “I haven’t been here that long, sir,” I say, “but it seems that people who care about animals are pretty good at caring about people, too.”

  He nods, twisting the gold wedding band on his left hand. “Sounds like something my wife would say. She died last year, you know.”

  “No, sir, I didn’t know that. I’m very sorry.”

  He nods absently. “After Nora passed, my son made me go out and get a dog. Thought I needed companionship. Crazy dog chewed up every shoe I owned, but I couldn’t help myself; I fell in love with the fool thing. Don’t want to think about how I’d get along without him.”

  “Then don’t,” I say firmly. “Dr. Gabe is a great doctor, and Ranger is strong and stubborn. Everything is going to be fine.”

  The door at the end of the hall opens and Dr. Gabe walks briskly toward us, followed by Brenna.

  “Ranger is a trouper,” Dr. Gabe announces with a big smile on his face. “I think the worst is behind him.”

  Mr. Fedor grabs Dr. Gabe’s hand and pumps it up and down. “Thank you, young man, thank you!” He beams.

  “It was quite the gastrointestinal blockage,” Dr. Gabe explains. “I removed not only the portion of leash and chain that you suspected, but also what looks like some carpet fibers and a plastic bottle cap!”

  “Really?” Mr. Fedor asks, dumbfounded.

  “Really. But we got his digestive tract cleared, and he’s stable now. He’s all stitched up, resting comfortably in the recovery room. You can see him soon, but we’ll need to keep him here overnight for observation.”

  Mr. Fedor almost looks like he’s going to cry with happiness. “I can’t thank you enough,” he says as he vigorously shakes Dr. Gabe’s hand again. Then Mr. Fedor turns to me and shakes my hand, too, and then Brenna’s, like he doesn’t know what to do with all the joy he’s feeling.

  While Dr. Gabe continues to talk to Mr. Fedor about Ranger’s recovery, Jules, Brenna, and I help Sunita clean up the operating room. Dr. Mac always tells us that keeping things clean and sterile is the first line of defense for good care in any veterinary clinic. Sunita gives us the details of the operation while we scrub.

  “Guys, you should have seen it. He knew exactly where to make the incision to reach the stomach. Then he had to find the blockage, remove it, and stitch Ranger up again. Some of the blockage was in Ranger’s stomach and some had started to move to his intestine, so Dr. Gabe got in there just in time. Ugh, it was gross but really fascinating.”

  “Don’t you ever feel queasy watching the surgeries?” Jules asks her.

  “Oh sure, of course. Especially my first few times seeing people’s pets injured or being operated on. But now I just focus on thinking positive. I concentrate on how we are helping the animals in the long run. Plus, when Dr. Gabe and Dr. Mac administer sedatives, I know the animals aren’t feeling any pain.”

  After Mr. Fedor leaves, Dr. Gabe thanks us for helping out and tells us he’ll be staying overnight on Dr. Mac’s couch to monitor Ranger. He says good-bye to the girls and asks me to stay for a minute.

  My stomach flops again, but I stay. As the door closes behind my sister, I say, “I know I screwed up, but please don’t hold that against Buster.”

  “Buster?” he asks.

  “The lame pony,” I remind him. “Could you come and check him tomorrow, please?”

  “Of course,” Dr. Gabe says. “Now, about that little episode in the operating room.”

  “Yeah,” I mutter, embarrassed. Dr. Gabe will probably never invite me to observe any of his surgeries again. “I’m really sorry about that.”

  “There’s nothing to be sorry about, dude. It happens. Next time, breathe in and out through your mouth, slow and steady, to keep your blood oxygenated. I had to do it a lot when I was starting out.”

  “And you got over it?” I ask.

  “I did,” Dr. Gabe says. “It should be better the next time.”

  Next time. Dr. Gabe said, Next time. And that gives me hope.

  Chapter Twelve

  When we get home, Mom and Dad are curled up on the couch reading a book to Sophie.

  “Is everything okay?” Mom asks.

  “Dr. Gabe saved the day,” Jules says. “Josh got to see how he prepped Ranger for surgery. He saw the X-rays, too.”

  I wait, but she doesn’t tell them about the humiliating part of the night. As far as sisters go, Jules can be the best, if she’s in the right mood.

  “Not the way I’d want to spend a Saturday night,” Mom comments.

  “It was pretty cool,” I say. “The best part was the look on Mr. Fedor’s face when Dr. Gabe told him Ranger would be okay.”

  “We’re reading about ponies, Josh!” Sophie announces.

  “Speaking of that,” I say carefully, “how do you think tomorrow is going to go? I mean, do you think the, um, outside entertainment will show up?” I’m trying to ask the question in a way that won’t upset Sophie.

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” Mom says. “It wouldn’t hurt to have a backup plan ready. Maybe a repeat of this morning?”

  “Can we do it when we wake up?” Jules whines. “I’m sooooo tired.”

  “I’ll do it,” I offer.

  Everyone stares at me, shocked that I’m volunteering for extra work in the store.

  “I’m not tired,” I explain. “The last thing I want to do is sit around in my room.”

  “Well, okay then,” Dad says. “Get to it!”

  After I set up the rabbitat, I clean up and organize the small area where little kids could draw. Mom is pretty good at face painting; the store was too busy today, but if it’s slower tomo
rrow, she might want to offer her services, so I rummage in the storeroom until I unearth all of the face-painting supplies. I clean them up and lay them on a shelf behind the register, along with paper towels and sponges. The last thing I do is sweep the aisles and empty the trash cans into the Dumpster.

  The wind has picked up since the afternoon, but it’s a strange warm wind, blowing from the south. It rustles the trees and my hair and hurries the clouds over the face of the fat moon. The wind makes me restless, frustrated, confused about almost everything. And worried.

  How does Buster feel? Did Gus let them out of the trailer? Did he even give them water or hay? What if he decides that the corral panels aren’t worth coming back for? Maybe he stole them in the first place. What if he decides that Buster is too much trouble? What if he abandons the pony at the side of the road . . . or worse?

  A sharp burst of wind rakes through the parking lot, causing the corral panels to fall with a loud clatter. The trees bow and sway, scattering blossoms and new leaves.

  I want to . . .

  I can’t . . .

  I shouldn’t. . . .

  I will . . .

  I have to find that campsite and save the ponies.

  I can’t take off until Mom and Dad are asleep, but that gives me plenty of time to get ready. The first thing is to borrow a few supplies: a gallon jug for hot water, a box of Epsom salts, and the last bag of alfalfa pellets. I’ll need to take Mom’s cell phone, which means I have to find it and charge it. Hmmm . . . That one’s going to require some more thought.

  I head down to the Vet Volunteer room in the basement to use the ancient computer. It’s so slow I want to scream, but instead I practice my calm and steady deep breaths and gradually click through to a map of Ambler. I zoom out and try to figure where Gus and the ponies might be staying.

  Okay, this is getting a little complicated.

  Eventually, I settle on three possible sites. I print out a map and directions to all three, and try not to wince when I see how many miles I’ll be biking. I put the directions and the rest of the supplies in my backpack. The last thing is to pump up the tires on my bike because my parents will definitely be sleeping with their windows open tonight, and I need to get out as quietly as possible.

  I find the hand pump and a flashlight in the storage closet, head up to the store, and tiptoe across the squeaky wooden boards. Mom and Sophie are giggling upstairs with Jules. There’s a baseball game on the television, so I know where Dad is, too. I sneak out the back door, walk the length of the building to our bike rack, put the flashlight in my mouth, and kneel down to unscrew the valve on the back tire of my bike.

  “Kind of late for a bike ride,” says a deep voice in the dark. “Don’t you think?”

  “Dad?” I shine the flashlight up the alley and find him standing there with a trowel in one hand and a potted begonia in the other. “What are you doing?”

  “That’s my question,” he says mildly.

  “My tires need air,” I say, sticking to the truth.

  “Is there any reason they need air right now?” he asks. “Nobody goes out on a bike ride at night—alone—right? Because that would extremely dangerous, I’m guessing.”

  Busted.

  “I was thinking about it,” I admit with a sigh. “But I was going to bring Mom’s cell phone with me so I’d be safe.”

  “Come help me with these flowers,” Dad suggests. “I did everything in my power to keep your mom from checking her planters today.”

  Under the faint glow from the streetlight on the corner, Dad and I plant new flowers and herbs to replace those that Babe had devoured for her breakfast. Slowly, I fill Dad in about my plans to find the campsite, take pictures of the bad conditions that Gus forces the ponies to live in, and give Buster’s leg another soaking treatment.

  “And you were going to do all of that at night, in the middle of nowhere, by yourself?” Dad asks.

  “It sounded like a better plan when it was in my head,” I admit. “Saying it out loud . . . well, it doesn’t sound quite as good.”

  “If you were a superhero, it would be easier and safer. I’m proud of your compassion, Josh.” Dad pauses to pat the soil down around the roots of a basil plant. “The world needs more kids like you and your friends, kids who understand animals and try to make their lives better.” He sits on the edge of the planter. “But riding off in the darkness like that, tracking a man who could be drunk, who could be dangerous. Son, that’s plain foolish. Compassion without intelligence won’t get you very far.”

  The words sting, even though I know he’s right.

  “But Dad, we have to do something.”

  He moves on to the next planter, pulls a root ball out of the dirt, and tosses it into a cardboard box. “Dr. Gabe said he’ll stop by to look over the ponies, right? And Brenna, the one with the crow, she’s trying to get the Animal Control fellow involved.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “But nothing. Josh, you’ve done everything you can. This is in the hands of adults now, professionals, whose job it is to handle these things.”

  “And they’re not taking it seriously. You saw Gus. He doesn’t care about Babe and Buster. They make money for him, that’s all.”

  Dad carefully lowers a zinnia plant into the dirt. “You know the worst part of being a parent?”

  The question puzzles me. “Paying for sneakers every time we outgrow them?”

  “No, it’s having to watch your children learn that the world is not a fair place. I hate to admit it, son, but there’s a good chance that you can’t win this battle, no matter how stubborn you are, no matter that your heart is in the right place.”

  I sniff and try to swallow the lump that’s stuck in my throat.

  “I stubbornly disagree, Dad.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  I wake up confused. More confused than usual. It was after two in the morning before I finally fell asleep, because—

  All of the memories of yesterday crash down on me. Buster. Babe. Gus. Dr. Gabe. Ranger.

  The clock shows nine thirty in the morning. Nine thirty!

  I jump out of the bed and run downstairs, hollering, “Why didn’t anybody wake me up?”

  Jules and Sophie look up from the cartoons they’re watching in the living room.

  “Why aren’t you dressed?” I ask. “We have so much to do!”

  “Josh,” Jules says.

  I grab my head in my hands. “I can’t believe Mom didn’t wake me up.”

  “Josh!” Jules shouts. “Calm down! It’s Sunday, you goof. The store doesn’t open until noon, remember? We sleep in on Sunday.”

  “Sunday,” I repeat. “Are Mom and Dad downstairs?”

  “They went to Lou’s for bagels. I hope they get back soon, I’m starving.”

  “So, I’m not late,” I say.

  “No, but you really stink. Take a shower, will you? Hey, where are you going?” she calls after me. “You’re not supposed to wear your pajamas downstairs!”

  I hurry all the way down to the basement and boot up the computer. Jules walks in as I am impatiently tapping the top of the monitor, even though I know that won’t speed things up.

  “What’s going on?” Jules asks.

  “I couldn’t sleep last night,” I confess. “I came down here and did some research.”

  “You did homework on a Saturday night?” She pretends to faint onto the couch. “What’s next? A zombie invasion?”

  “It wasn’t homework, it was real research. It started with this.” I hold up the grubby business card that I found next to the register. “His full name is Gus Blusterfeld. But it wasn’t as easy as I thought it was going to be. Turns out there are a lot of Gus Blusterfelds in the world.”

  “I hope they’re not all like the one we know.”

  “Me, too. It took a couple ho
urs and a lot of mistakes, but I finally found a couple of sites that Gus was listed on—party-planning sites mostly. Get this: the listings were under two names, Gustav and Gloria Blusterfeld.”

  “How do you know it’s the right Gus?”

  “Because they all had photos of Buster and Babe.”

  “Is Gloria his wife?”

  “I don’t know. I sent e-mails to every site I found, but I haven’t heard back from anyone yet. The more information we have about Gus, the better. But I can’t hang out on the computer all day.”

  “I’ll come down here and check whenever I can,” Jules says.

  “Thanks. Do me a favor and call Brenna, too. Ask if that Animal Control officer is back yet.” My e-mail alert beeps and I click to open the new message.

  “Is it about Gus?” she asks.

  “No.” I read and reread the message. “It’s David. He’s on his way over.”

  “I thought he was going to a horse show or something with his dad.”

  “Looks like his plans changed,” I say.

  “Ouch,” Jules says.

  “Yeah,” I agree. “Ouch.”

  • • • • •

  By the time I get out of the shower, Mom and Dad have returned, and the kitchen is filled with the smell of the best bagels in the world, toasted and smothered with cream cheese. David is here, too, working his way through a French-toast bagel. He doesn’t look like he got much sleep, either.

  “Hey,” I say, putting the halves of my everything bagel in the toaster.

  “Hey,” he says.

  Mom and Dad are downstairs putting the finishing touches on the store. Jules and Sophie are eating in the living room.

  I watch the wires inside the toaster glow hot. David usually talks a hundred miles a minute. He’s always joking, teasing, showing off to get a laugh.

  My bagel halves toast in silence, then pop.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah.”

  “No, you’re not.” I put the bagel on a plate and carry it to the table. “What’s going on? Why aren’t you at the horse show?”