Chapter 2 - The Heartbeat on the Table
Lupita scrambled across the faded linoleum, tossing aside laundry baskets until she emerged with an electric heating pad and an armful of clean flannel cloths. Miguel sat cross-legged on the floor, cupping the tiny white pup against his chest beneath his flannel shirt. He rubbed the miniature body with his thumb in rhythmic, desperate strokes, willing his own body heat to seep through the chilled, paper-thin skin.
Canela lay stretched out on the rag pile, her head resting on her forepaws. Her dark amber eyes never left Miguel's hands. The other five puppies, blind and squirming, blindly nuzzled against her sunken belly, finding milk that was dangerously scarce. Lupita brought a shallow bowl of warm water mixed with a splash of condensed milk and set it inches from Canela's snout. This time, the starving mother did not hesitate; she lapped it down frantically, her sides heaving with desperate gratitude.
"Come on, little one," Miguel whispered, feeling the faint tick of a heart against his palm. "Don't quit on your mama. Not after she dragged you through that furnace."
A sudden, sharp sneeze broke the stillness. The pale pup’s mouth opened wide, and a tiny, high-pitched squeak echoed through the kitchen. His miniature front legs twitched against Miguel's thumb.
Lupita let out a breathless sob, tears spilling over her eyelashes. "He's breathing, Miguel. He's breathing!"
She quickly wrapped the warmed flannel around the pup and laid him gently back beside his mother's flank. Canela immediately curled her bruised body around him, burying her muzzle into his damp fur and washing him with long, protective strokes of her tongue. For the first time since Miguel had hit the brakes on the scorching asphalt of Highway 45, the dog let out a deep, shuddering sigh and closed her eyes.
"Now explain this to me," Lupita said, picking up the hospital band by its edges and placing it on the laminate kitchen table. "How does an abandoned stray get a missing boy's hospital band inside a nursery box?"
Miguel inspected the underside of the wet cardboard box they had brought inside. He peeled away the damp layers of newspaper lining the bottom. Tucked neatly beneath the newsprint, flat against the cardboard base, was a laminated photograph and a folded piece of yellow legal paper sealed inside a ziplock bag.
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Miguel’s hands shook as he unzipped the plastic. He smoothed out the photograph first. It showed a smiling young boy with unruly dark curls, hugging a cinnamon-colored puppy whose floppy ears and distinct white chest patch matched Canela perfectly.
And beneath the photo, written in shaky, hurried handwriting, was a single sentence: If you find Canela, tell my father I didn’t run away. He has Mateo at the old lime quarry.
