Page 23 of Hot Under the Collar

When she went back down to the bar, Ruby nodded and gave her a thumbs-up.

The next couple hours dragged on uneventfully. Every time she snuck upstairs she saw the same thing—Mama asleep in her blanket, and fussy, frustrated kittens who hadn’t touched the shallow dish.

Then she got another text from Nina. Traffic jam. Just now leaving Eastmoor.

Lynne cursed under her breath. By the time Nina arrived, Lynne had driven half her staff crazy with her pacing, forgetfulness, and clumsiness. They begged her to go upstairs.

“I put down milk replacer, but they won’t take it,” Lynne confessed as she opened the apartment door for Nina. “Mama won’t let them anywhere near her.”

Nina surveyed the room and complimented Lynne’s setup, adjusted a few things, then turned the conversation back to the feeding issue. “How long since they were fed?”

“At least since early this morning, but, honestly, it’s probably been more like 24 hours.”

Nina’s expression changed. She glanced over at Mama and back at the litter and furrowed her brow. She picked up one of the kittens who had wandered off the blanket and cradled it in her hands. Lynne noticed how slow and fragile the little one seemed. All the spunk from earlier today was fading. A lump formed in her throat.

“He’s cold,” Nina shared. “Lynne, you must start bottle-feeding them. I can’t stress how serious this is. We’ll do the first one together, but then they’ll all need to be fed every 2-3 hours. Got it?”

Lynne bit at the inside of her cheek and nodded.

Nina showed her how to warm the formula and prep the bottles. They had to be careful to pace the feeding to avoid aspiration. Then it was a rinse-and-repeat of burp, wipe faces and bottoms, and monitor each kitten before moving on to the next. Between the two of them, it took a half hour to feed all five. But by then everyone, including Lynne, looked a little more comfortable.

“You did great. But it’s going to be a long night. Are you sure there isn’t someone who can come over and help? What about Cali?”

Lynne shook her head. “She’d drop everything and miss work tomorrow if I texted her right now. All of The Nine would. That’s why I don’t want to bother any of them just yet.”

She could tell Nina was chewing on a thought. “Then should I—?”

“No. You’ve already done so much just driving out here, Nina. I promise, if I find I can’t handle it on my own tonight, I’ll call Cali.”

Or Leo, she thought.

Nina seemed relieved. “Okay. I believe you. Let me show you how to weigh them while I’m here, too. Okay? I’d normally recommend weighing them once each day at the same time. But given what’s happened, aim for twice per day, about twelve hours apart if you can. Do it right before feeding so you don’t forget. I know we just fed them, but let’s do it once together as a baseline.”

After Nina left and Lynne started counting the minutes toward the next feeding, she reread Leo’s last text three times, questioning her decision to do this on her own, and obsessed over the heating pad timer.

She went back to her own reply on social media and typed out another. Update: Mama’s struggling to feed. We’re— Then she deleted it.

We shouldn’t have moved them, Lynne kept scolding herself. I rushed it. I scared Mama.

Anytime those thoughts crept in, she sat near Mama and talked sweetly to her, even if she was asleep.

The hours came and went, and every kitten was weighed and tracked then fed with care. No one aspirated. No one got hurt. But Lynne couldn’t help but feel the pressure building by the time 6 a.m. arrived.

Her hands shook from exhaustion and adrenaline as she typed out a message to Leo. I need you here after your shift. Bring clothes. A toothbrush. Please. I’ll explain more later.

10

Leo (Now)

Leo was inventorying trauma bags when Lynne’s message appeared. He had to admit, reading it made him want to cut early and head over to her place as soon as he saw it. But that wasn’t possible. The station tones dropped just as he finished the last bag.

“Engine 3, Medic 2: possible structure fire, residential, smoke from eaves.”

His eyes met Tracey’s—one of his crew—across the bay. “So much for an easy shift,” she said, already jogging toward the rig.

Twenty minutes later, they stood in a stranger’s front yard with their gear half-zipped, watching a thin ribbon of smoke curl from an attic vent. No flames.

Leo crawled through itchy insulation with his flashlight, tracking the sharp, plasticky smell like a hound dog until he found the scorched outlet. His heart still did that stuttering things it always did when he heard the first hiss of heat, because they were all trained to remember how fast “nothing” could turn into “too late.”