Free Fight for Life by Laurie Halse Anderson Page B

and who needs to go to the clinic. They are all hungry. As the volunteers load up the shelter van, Gran tells Captain Thompson how to feed them properly. The shelter van has to make two trips.
    When Gran is ready to take the sick dogs and puppies back to the clinic, she starts up the van and turns the heat on full blast.
    “Get in out of the rain,” she tells us. “You are all going to have to be puppy incubators.” We jump in the van and she starts handing each of us three puppies bundled in a towel. “Hold them close. They need your body heat.”
    Sunita nudges me. I look out the window. The sheriff and the puppy mill owner are shaking hands. They are smiling at each other.
    “He looks awfully happy for a guy who was just arrested,” remarks Zoe.
    “Here, guys, help me,” I say. “Hold my puppies for a minute.” Brenna, David, and Sunita each take one of my puppies. I open the door and dash out into the storm. Lightning flashes. I count one, two, three, four, five. The thunder rumbles. That was close. I’m petrified, but I keep going.
    “Excuse me!” I say to the sheriff as I tap him on the back. “Aren’t you going to arrest him?”
    He turns to me. “That’s not necessary. The doc has the sick animals. Larry here, he tried his best.”
    “I lost my job,” Larry says.
    “He lost his job,” the sherifff repeats. “Then he hurt his back.”
    “I couldn’t take care of them,” Larry says. He shakes his head from side to side, as if he really cared about the dogs. What a fake! What a total fake!
    “I gave him a warning, and he promised to help out with your grandmother’s vet fees. You should get back in the van.”
    The thunder booms again.
    Now I’m shaking.
    I’m furious.
    I fumble in my pocket and pull out my notes from the library. “You have to charge him,” I tell the sheriff. I read slowly, “According to The Dog Purchaser Protection Act, Section 9.3, an amendment to the Unfair Trade Practices and Consumer Protection Law. He didn’t give customers a health record or a health certificate signed by a vet. Plus he isn’t taking care of the dogs out back. Half of them look . . .” My throat closes up.
    Don’t cry , I tell myself. Don’t cry yet. Use the facts . I stare Larry the Liar straight in the eye.
    “Half of them look like they’re ready to die. You should be charged with neglect, abuse, and cruelty.” I hand my notes to the sheriff.
    “Hang on,” says the sheriff. He uses his radio to contact his office and explain the situation. We wait a very long minute—the sheriff tapping his boot impatiently, me glaring at Larry, Larry trying to figure out if he should look sad, angry, or embarrassed.
    The radio crackles, and the sheriff listens closely to his dispatcher. Then he looks up.
    “The kid is right, Larry. I don’t have a choice. I have to charge you. Get in the car. We’ll do this down at the station.”
    Yes!
    I turn around. Gran is standing behind me. She must have been standing there the whole time in case something went wrong, but she let me do it on my own. Her hair is plastered to her head, and the rain has soaked her sweatshirt, but her eyes are warm and proud.
    “You did it!” she shouts over the thunder. She gives me quick hug. “That’s my girl!”
    I haven’t heard her say that in a really, really long time.

Chapter Fifteen
    T he clinic looks like a veterinarian’s version of 101 Dalmatians . Dogs, dogs, dogs everywhere, big and small, and they all need a doctor. Thank goodness we have enough of those. Dr. Gabe put out the call for help while we were at the puppy mill. A couple of his friends from vet school are here to pitch in.
    Gran directs traffic. “I want each dog to have a number, an ID tag, and a chart. Gabe, you hand out the numbers. We need to keep them straight. Use both of the exam rooms, the O.R., and the recovery room. If we need extra space, move the lab equipment into the kitchen.”
    “Excuse me,” says a young vet with cornrows.