Season 1 Chapter 2 – Room Eight

“Auck!” squawked one of the petulant ravens from across the street.
Corvus corax.
The corpse cracks with an axe.
Marco and Rowf made their way back onto the golf course to finish off his sprinkler quota.
By eleven AM, heat made work impossible. Salty sweat was dripping into his eyes, so he lumbered toward the maintenance shed to retrieve his bike.
Two ravens sat atop the roof, eyeing him.
Unafraid, he glared back and stuck his tongue out to taunt them.
“Let’s get out of here, Rowf.”
He sat Rowf up in the bike crate and coasted out of the parking lot, taking his favorite shortcut to the pet hospital.
It was tucked inside Comet Center, a recently revived retro shopping mall featuring the old Palm Springs Comet Café, a popular movie star hangout in the sixties. Its fresh white paint and newly restored butterfly roof belied its old local nickname, the Vomit Café, because so many people got sick after eating there.
Despite it being so hot out, the parking lot was packed with meticulously restored vintage cars owned by nostalgic tourists and the hip local lunch crowd.
Marco parked his bike in the shade and set Rowf down on the warm, dry grass.
A scruffy, sweaty man with long, frizzy hair strummed his guitar, belting out “Volare” while a few dorky tourists disco-danced and sang along.
Marco tossed the man a crumpled dollar.
Sheila’s shiny 1969 Cadillac DeVille stood out in the parking lot. It was old, but like herself, she kept it looking polished and new. She named it “The Blue Lagoon,” after a classic romantic movie she loved.
He glanced down at his own dusty work clothes and dirty fingernails and wondered if he could ever be like that.
Inside the veterinarian’s office, he approached an assistant in loudly patterned scrubs. His name tag read Tommy, pinned crookedly to his chest.
“Hi,” he said politely. “I’m with Sheila. Is she here?”
The burly, bearded man behind the counter lit up.
“Oh! You must be Marco. My goodness, that puppy you found is the cutest dog I’ve ever seen!”
He checked the chart, then added with a wink, “Down the hall, doll, room eight.”
Rowf recognized the vet’s office immediately and refused to go in any further. He let out a long, theatrical howl. A big German shepherd joined him, and soon screechy meows, harsh yelps, and low, resounding barks echoed from every door in the office. Marco had to carry him the rest of the way.
At Room Eight, Marco turned the cold metal handle and stepped inside. His shoulder scraped the wall. The room was tiny and efficient, with a floor the color of dog barf. A cold steel examination table stood in the center, and a narrow access door marked the opposite wall.
Sheila and her little old lady friend sat quietly, the now-empty wicker basket between them. The satin bow on its handle had come untied. The puppy was nowhere to be seen.
She handed him his bloodstained work shirt.
He set Rowf down gently and slipped it on without a word.
“Marco,” she said quietly, “Dr. Scuffles gave the puppy tranquilizers and took X-rays. The poor thing has two broken legs and a fractured rib.”
She paused, eyes glistening.
“I’ve never seen an animal hurt this bad.”