I fixate on his crystal eyes to redirect my brain away from the pain. He’s handsome, in a rough and rugged way, like he was once a kid who climbed trees rather than played video games. His heavy five o’clock shadow covers strong cheekbones and a dimpled chin—Tripp family traits—and matches his buzz-cut hairstyle—short, dark, but patchy with dirt and salted with grays. He’s older, mid-thirties at least. Worry creases his forehead, but small starbursts around his eyes tell me he’s no stranger to laughter.

He’s not laughing now. He looks serious, even distraught. He listens to the paramedic, calling out numbers and words that don’t make sense. Grady’s worry lines deepen with the information, and this predicament is scary enough without knowing my heartbeat is thready, whatever that means.

Thready like threadbare? Tattered? Coming undone? Falling apart? I suddenly feel like a torn sweater, stringy and discarded, left forgotten on a heap in the back of the closet.

No, Marnie, no. Good thoughts only. No frowns, no fears, no tears.

Grady’s hand is no longer hooked to my insides, thank goodness—that felt so embarrassing. A cold metal thing sticks out from my belly instead, pinning me together. Best not to think about that. He holds my free hand in both of his beside me, warming me like a glove, and our hands stick together from the blood residue. My French manicure, white with light gold sparkles, curls around Grady’s sun-browned, dirty hands, making my skin look paler than usual. It’s a ghost hand holding onto a live one.

“This’ll pinch a bit,” says the paramedic.

Grady grips my hand tighter, fixing my attention. “So, there’s Triscuit. Tell me about your other cats.”

“Hershey,” I whisper against the oxygen mask, holding back a whimper as a needle punctures my arm.

“It’s just the IV. You’ll feel better with fluids and meds.” He leans closer, nearly to my ear. “Let me guess. Black cat?”

“Long-haired. And my tabby, Sunkist. Rescues. From the dumpster behind Sunny’s.”

“Triscuit, Sunkist, and Hershey—sweet.” His lips edge into a side-smile. “Surprised we haven’t met before.”

I use a Wilmington vet who offers free shots, spaying, and neutering for newly homed stray cats, but I keep that a secret to avoid offending him.

Even so, I’ve seen Grady Tripp before. Everyone knows the Tripps. But Grady gets the most attention in gossip circles, first for being the eldest, most handsome, and most mysterious brother, but a close second for his unfriendliness. He’s known as Grouchy Tripp. He left Seagrove and his father’s generous offer to take over Tripp Family Farm while working as the town’s only vet for a wife and swanky practice in Charlotte, but returned two years ago with neither and has all but taken over his dad’s farm, anyway.