“Morning,” Pat said. She consulted the team work responsibilities log behind the front desk. “Need me here at the front desk, or somewhere else?”

“Can you walk some dogs?” Fran asked. “We’re short back there.”

“On my way.” Pat nodded crisply, unsurprised. An organization that relied so heavily on volunteers could occasionally suffer resource gaps. Although the team work log delineated areas of responsibility, she usually wound up pitching in wherever she was needed.

The campus was home to dozens of dogs awaiting adoption: over sixty dog runs and nearly forty puppy pens. In the course of a day, all of those canines needed play time, and they needed to be walked, one-on-one.

The canine containment area was filled with a cacophony of barking, yelping, and whining. Would-be adopters wandered the wide rows, dogs competing for their attention.

Pat snagged a leash from the staff area, and headed toward a row of dogs that another volunteer informed her needed some TLC. Pat planned to work her way through every animal she could. She started off by approaching a male Labrador, named Dakota. Two years old, Dakota had a lovely chocolate coat and, like every dog there, had been altered.

“Hey, boy,” Pat said, approaching his pen. Dakota’s tail wagged. “Want to go for a walk?”

Pat halted outside of the dog’s pen. She removed her glasses, rubbed her eyes, replaced the lenses, and re-examined the animal inside.

Dakota had two heads.

One of the heads was happy and grinning; the other snarled at her, showing teeth.

Pat put her hand against her lips, stifling a scream. She backed away from the kennel.

When she had first looked at the dog, he had appeared normal. Upon the next glance, he had two heads. Was she losing her mind?

Dakota continued to stare at her. His tail wagged. But that second head looked as if it wanted to rip out her throat. The eyes were ringed with crimson, and the teeth were disproportionately huge and sharp, as if they belonged in the jaws of a great white shark.

Clutching the leash in a tight grip, Pat retreated down the aisle and found another volunteer, a cheerful, fifty-something redhead named Susan.

“Are you familiar with Dakota?” Pat said. “The chocolate lab?”

“Yep, he’s a sweetie. Is everything okay?”

“Is there anything . . . unusual about him?”

Susan frowned. “Umm, nope. He’s a perfectly healthy, normal looking lab. Super playful, but most of them are at that age. Why?”

I’ve imagined the deformity that I saw, Pat thought. If the dog really possessed two heads, Susan would have said so.

“It’s okay,” Pat said, though she felt anything but okay. “I need to use the ladies room. I’ll be back in a moment.”