“Wake up, murderer."
The growl came with a thud—Greta slamming a mop bucket against the attic door.
Stella swung her legs off the cot. “What now?"
“Joseph wants the kennels scrubbed. Storm hit last night. Mud everywhere."
She blinked. “Isn't that maintenance duty?"
Greta shrugged. “Guess he thinks you need fresh air."
---
The kennels sat behind the packhouse, near the edge of the forest. Rain had churned the ground into thick sludge. Inside, pups whimpered—tiny, confused, some injured.
Stella rolled up her sleeves and knelt.
It was worse than she expected—filthy floors, overturned bedding, water leaking from broken gutters.
A little black pup snarled weakly as she approached. She smiled.
“Easy there. I'm not your enemy."
He yipped again but didn't run.
She laid out clean rags,
