Re: [In-person: PJ and Atticus]
[No one needed to ask Matt twice about coming around to help PJ. Atticus sent his message, and it was just a matter of pulling together the materials that might be needed, after.
The filling station and garage were empty when Matt peered in, the only definition of 'PJ's place' he was aware of. He'd been in the town close to a year now, but he had only mingled with the people when caring for their animals.
The barn was the only other place she could be, and he saw the sense in it as soon as he laid eyes on it. When he knocked at the open door, Atticus and PJ were at the back, near one of the stalls. The only sign anything about the stall struck him was the hitch in his purposeful step, a slowing as he saw it, its shiny bright steel bars. He felt a clamp shut tight at the back of his head. Whatever memories had just tried to filter in at the sight of that thing, they weren't getting an airing. Not right now.
Atticus greeted him, and Matt nodded. He didn't know what he expected PJ's friend to be like, but he seemed friendly, soft. He'd never heard a bad thing about the man, but he knew his dead parents ran the B&B. Matt knew a little about almost everyone in this town. Necessity. Anyone could be a cover story, but long-time residents were less likely.
Mostly he was looking at PJ, at the wheelchair, at the color of her skin. She looked tired from pain, and he knew that one in animals and people both. He was dressed in a denim jacket despite the summer heat, work gloves and battered boots that looked like they could take whatever an animal could throw at them and then some, and a henley that had seen better days. His hair was a little less a shaggy mess than before, and since it seemed unlikely he had wandered into a barbershop, odds were he had gone at it with a razor and a mirror before the party - it was even, but still not cropped short. At first glance, sure, he could be the off-the-grid veterinarian, but he obviously fit the bill of a different kind of vet altogether.
Atticus left, and then it was just the pair of them. She looked shaky on her feet. The stall was still at the forefront of his mind, bright and searing, like matched metal teeth with a locked door.
That would wear off, but it meant that words didn't come to him immediately, and that rankled extra after last night, a bright flare of frustration. Very bad timing. Anyway, what was important was getting PJ off her feet, resting, and as comfortable as possible.
He dropped the black duffel over his shoulder, unzipped it, and pulled out a thin blue blanket, packed flat and folded tight. He unfolded it and handed it to her, wordlessly. It was clean, though it smelled like dust and cigarette smoke, so it had come to him secondhand. The cage was dark, and its floor would be cold, even in summer. It would be uncomfortable sleeping, even with the hay, for a distressed and injured animal thinking only of its own survival.
He tightened that clamp. Just a little.
Then he began rooting around in the pockets of the bag. After a few more silent moments:] Tranquilizers. Brought them. Wouldn't take them. Right now. [He produced a blister pack, held it up for her to see, half-full of large pink pills. Words still came in fits and starts, but got a little more connected as he went along.] Dosage. Body might flush it, when you change. Will wait. Can always get it to you after. If hurting badly. Sit. [He pointed to the chair. No nonsense here.] For a minute. Don't need to go in yet.
[Then he opened the side of the duffel and exposed a fluffy head.]
Will share. [He flashed something in the vicinity of a smile.] Want it back, though.