Chapter 2: A Bloody Stranger and a Feathered Secret

Suddenly—oh, crap—the man lying on the ground convulsed and coughed up a mouthful of blood.

The wet, choking sound snapped me back to the present. My stomach lurched. The floor was already stained, and now it looked like a crime scene. I dropped to my knees beside him, suddenly aware of just how serious this was.

I’d been so focused on the rooster, I’d forgotten there was an injured guy here.

My cheeks burned with embarrassment. Only I could get distracted by a chicken in the middle of an emergency. I muttered a quick apology to the universe and got to work.

I hauled him onto my little rest cot and carefully cut open his shirt.

The cot creaked under his weight. I grabbed the scissors from the first aid kit and snipped through layers of fabric, careful not to jostle him too much. The wounds underneath made me wince.

Yikes—he looked skinny and frail, but he was made of tougher stuff.

His muscles were corded and lean, the kind of build you’d see on a marathon runner or someone who spent their days climbing trees. But the bruises and cuts told a different story—he’d been through hell. Wild stuff.

But his whole body was a mess of wounds. Ugh.

There were scratches, bite marks, and what looked like burns. Some of the wounds were still bleeding. Others had already started to scab over. It was a patchwork of pain, and I felt a surge of sympathy.

I could just make out that the claw marks on his chest were from some kind of wildcat, and the holes in his shoulder looked like snake bites…

I paused, tracing the jagged lines with my eyes, piecing together the story—he’d fought something fierce, and barely made it out alive. The punctures on his shoulder oozed a weird, dark fluid. Gross. Poison, maybe? I didn’t want to think about it too hard.

I grabbed the first aid kit and started disinfecting and bandaging his wounds. Deep breath, Mallory.

I worked quickly, dabbing antiseptic on every cut, wrapping gauze as best I could. You got this, I told myself. My hands shook, but I kept going, fueled by adrenaline and the stubborn hope that I could actually help.

After half an hour of work, I’d used up the last of the shop’s water. Seriously?

The final drops trickled from the bottle as I wiped down a nasty scratch on his arm. I tossed the empty jug in the trash, feeling a knot of dread tighten in my stomach. No more water—not even for myself.

"Whew…"

I wiped the sweat from my forehead, finally able to catch my breath.

I slumped against the wall, hands sticky with blood and antiseptic. Great. Just what I needed. The animals watched me with wide eyes, as if they knew I was running on fumes.

"Uh, water…"

A while later, the guy on the bed finally looked alive again.

His eyes flickered open, glassy but focused. He licked his cracked lips and tried to sit up, voice barely above a whisper. For someone who’d just survived a monster attack, he looked surprisingly lucid. Tough guy.

Honestly, his resilience was insane. All I did was disinfect his wounds and give him a couple of Tylenol. And he managed to recover on his own.

I’d seen tough customers before—guys who shrugged off bee stings and broken bones—but this was something else. Dang.

"You want water? I don’t even have any left myself," I admitted helplessly.

I gestured at the empty bottle, trying to keep my tone light. "If you find a stream out there, let me know. I’ll trade you a bag of kibble for a drink."

Looks like I really would have to go out and find some water soon. Ugh.

I glanced at the door, weighing my options. Brave the woods, or wait for a miracle? Neither sounded great.

Come on, there’s got to be a drop out there in that huge forest. Right?

I tried to convince myself, even as my nerves jangled. The forest was endless—there had to be a creek or pond somewhere. I just had to get past the fear of what else might be lurking out there.

But I was worried about running into wolves. I shuddered.

The howls I’d heard at night weren’t just my imagination. No way. Out here, wolves were real, and probably a lot weirder than the ones in nature documentaries.

"Wait, don’t hurt me—"

Suddenly, the man on the bed sat bolt upright. He moved too quickly and tumbled to the floor.

He crashed to the ground with a groan, clutching his side. Ouch. I rushed over, worried he’d reopened his wounds, but he just looked around, wild-eyed and confused.

Only then did he notice his surroundings. He blinked, taking it all in.

His gaze darted from the parakeet cages to the wall of dog food, and then to me, as if trying to piece together how he’d ended up in a place like this. Poor guy. I almost laughed.

"Where… where am I?"

"Welcome to Soft & Fluffy Pet Shop. I’m the owner, Mallory Grant," I said, trying to sound like I had my act together.

My voice came out steadier than I felt. I gave him a small, reassuring smile, the same one I used on nervous customers back home. Fake it till you make it, right?

He took a while to collect himself, then suddenly gave me a formal nod. "I’m Lucas DeWitt, junior member of the Moonridge Pack—thank you, ma’am, for saving my life."

He said it with a kind of old-school seriousness, like he was pledging allegiance or something. I tried not to laugh, but it was oddly charming.

"Saving a life matters more than any big project. It was nothing, really—I didn’t do much."

I shrugged, trying to play it cool. Not sure what else to say.

"You’re too modest. To run a shop in dangerous Ridgewood Forest, you must be incredibly strong."

His tone was earnest, and I could tell he meant every word. My cheeks heated up again—compliments like that weren’t exactly common in my old life. Weird, but… kind of nice.

"Uh, if you say so."

No one had ever complimented me like that—I felt a little embarrassed. Awkward.

I fiddled with a loose thread on my sleeve, unsure how to respond. The animals seemed to sense my discomfort and settled down, as if giving me space to process it all.