They pulled up in front of a run-down house that had once been white. A dead-eyed older woman escorted them around the side yard while listing the reasons why this situation wasn’t her fault and why she could not care for puppies. Apparently, the mother dog was a Chihuahua who occasionally ate the kibble the woman left out for her.

“The puppies are under there.” She pointed to the crawl space beneath the raised foundation, then went indoors.

“Why would a mother dog abandon her puppies?” Luke asked Finley.

“She might be part of the roaming dog population. If so, it’s possible she was killed or injured while out scavenging for food. It’s also possible that she may have weaned them and simply moved on.”

Beneath the house he saw spiderwebs, mud, rusty nails. Since the earthquake, he no longer went underneath structures. No basements. No below-ground parking garages. But he heard himself say, “I’ll go.”

Finley laughed.

“What?” he demanded.

“How many litters of puppies have you rescued?” She got down on her hands and knees to peer into the opening.

“None.”

“Exactly. So I’m going.” She’d gasped when a car pulled out in front of them, but now she shimmied under the house without hesitation. “You stay here. I’ll hand the puppies to you and you can place them in the crate.”

“Have you had a tetanus shot?” he grumbled.

She didn’t answer.

Soon after, her white wrist extended from the crawl space, holding a ball of light brown fluff.

“Um.” Since he had no other option, he lifted the baby animal from her hand. The fluff eyed him impatiently, wiggling. It had a pointy nose and eyes like brown Skittles. Its ears folded down and its tail folded up. It reminded him of a dirty brown dandelion with a face and legs. He stuck it in the crate. It pawed the door, whining.

Concerned about Finley, he squinted into the hole under the house.

He wasn’t getting paid enough to do this job.

Near the end of Luke’s workday, Finley carried the four puppies into the workspace and carefully set them on the floor. She’d placed them in an open-topped container that looked like a laundry hamper padded with sheets. Immediately, Trish knelt to cuddle them.

Hours ago, after Finley had scooped the dogs from under the house, she’d crawled from the foundation with a cobweb on her shoulder, dirt on her hands and streaked across one cheek, and stains on the knees of her overalls. Why all of that had made her look even prettier, he couldn’t explain.

He’d dropped Finley and the puppies off at the vet. Later, Kat had given them a ride back to the Center, where volunteers had fed and bathed the puppies.

“They look to me like Pomchis.” Kat stood over them with her hands on her hips.

“What’s a Pomchi?” Luke asked.