Landline

Georgie stomped down the back steps, irritated with every living thing in the house. Porky looked up at her and barked. “What’s the problem?” Georgie asked. “Do you want to drool all over my clothes, too?”

She leaned over the dryer door to look for the other one, lumpy old Bit-a-Brick. That’s when Georgie saw the blood. “Oh God . . .”

Porky started barking again. Georgie crouched in front of the dryer, trying not to block the light. All she could see was a pile of clothes streaked with blood. Neal’s Metallica T-shirt was on top, moving; she pulled it out of the way. Petunia was curled underneath, gnawing at something, something dark and wriggling.

“Oh God, oh God—Heather!” Georgie shouted. She jumped up and ran back in the house. “Heather!”

When she got to the kitchen, Heather was standing at the front door, staring at Georgie like she was pla

Oh. The pizza boy was a girl.

Smaller than Heather; wearing dark jeans, a short-sleeved white T-shirt under thin leather suspenders, and a ball cap that said ANGELO’S. The girl looked kind of like Wesley Crusher, but prettier and with nicer arms. It was a good look.

Huh, Georgie thought, then said out loud: “Heather. It’s Petunia.”

“What?”

“Petunia’s having a baby.”

“What?”

“Petunia!” Georgie said, more urgently. “She’s having puppies in the dryer!”

“No, she’s not. She’s having a C-section in two weeks.”

“Great!” Georgie shouted. “I’ll go tell her!”

“Oh God!” Heather shouted back. She ran past Georgie toward the laundry room. Georgie ran behind her as far as the door.

Heather knelt in front of the dryer and immediately screamed. Porky was ru

“Whoa,” someone said.

The pizza girl stepped around Georgie on the stairs. “Whoa,” she said again, crouching behind Heather.

“She’s go

The girl touched her shoulder. “She’s not.”

“She is. Their heads are too big, she has to have a C-section. Oh God.” Heather took a few crazy breaths. “Oh my God.”

“She’s going to be fine,” Georgie said. “She was built for this.”

“She wasn’t,” Heather said, crying now. “Pugs are bred to be useless. We have to take her to the vet.”

“I think it’s too late for that,” pizza girl said, looking into the dryer. “There are puppies in there.” Porky ran by the dryer again, and the girl scooped him up, ru

“Right,” Georgie said.

Heather was still crying and breathing like she was making every effort to pass out.

“Right,” Georgie said again. “Heather, move.”

“Why?”

“I’m going to help Petunia.”

“You don’t even like her.”

“Move.”

Pizza girl tugged on Heather’s elbow, and Heather moved back.

“My OB didn’t like me either,” Georgie murmured. “Get out your phone, Heather. Google ‘pugs in labor.’”

“I would if I had a smartphone!” Heather snarled.

“I’ve got it,” ever-more-impressive pizza girl said. “Here—” She handed Porky to Heather. “—maybe you guys could get some clean towels.”

“Have you done this before?” Heather asked hopefully, taking the dog and wiping her face in its fur.

“No,” the girl said, “but I watch Animal Planet.”

“Google,” Georgie said, reaching into the dryer. Petunia had burrowed under the T-shirt again and was shivering, worrying something with her mouth. Georgie tried to nudge more clothes away, so she could see.

“Okay, okay,” pizza girl said. “It’s loading. Okay, here we go—‘giving birth can be especially challenging for both pugs and pug owners.’”

“So far, so good . . . ,” Georgie said. “It’s too dark, I can’t see anything.”

“Oh.” The girl held her key chain over Georgie’s shoulder. “There’s a flashlight.”

“That’s handy.” Georgie took the heavy key chain and found the stainless steel light.

“It helps when I’m delivering pizzas at night, to get the credit card numbers—okay, it says here that pugs have complicated pregnancies, and we should be financially prepared for a C-section. . . .”

“Skip ahead,” Georgie said. Petunia was wet and splotched with blood. The thing in her mouth was moving. Oh, God, she’s eating it.

“She’s eating the puppies!” Heather shrieked. She was leaning behind Georgie holding a stack of towels and three bottled waters.

“She’s not eating it,” pizza girl said, putting her hand on Heather’s arm. She held up her phone so they both could see. “It’s in its sac. They’re born in sacs, and the mom chews them out. It’s a good sign that she’s chewing them free. It says that pugs are notoriously bad mothers. If she didn’t do it, we’d have to.”

“We’d have to chew them out?” Georgie asked.

The girl looked at Georgie like she was insane—but still managed to look patient. “We’d use a washcloth,” she explained.

“I brought washcloths!” Heather said.

The girl smiled at Heather. “Great job.”

“What else does it say?” Georgie asked.

Still-competent-but-clearly-distracted pizza girl looked back at her phone. “Um . . . okay, puppies—there can be one to seven.”

“Seven,” Georgie repeated.

“Sacs . . . ,” the girl said, “chewing . . . Oh, she’s supposed to chew the umbilical cord, too.”

“Great.”

“And placentas—there’s a placenta for each puppy. That’s important. You need to look for the placentas.”

“What do the placentas look like?”

“Do you want me to Google that?”

“No,” Georgie said, “keep reading.”

Petunia was still working on the wriggly thing with her teeth. “Good girl,” Georgie said. “Probably.”

She patted blindly around Petunia and recoiled when she felt something else soft and warm.

“What?” Heather asked, still half in a panic.

“I don’t know,” Georgie said, reaching back in. She found it again, warm and wet. Was it a puppy? Georgie held up what looked like a bag of blood, then dropped it. “Placenta.”

“That’s one,” the girl said enthusiastically.

“Aren’t you supposed to be reading?” Georgie reached back in.

“There’s nothing else. Make the dog comfortable. Make sure she helps the puppies get free. Count the placentas. Make sure they nurse . . . .”

Georgie felt something else wet under Petunia and grabbed it instinctively. “Jesus,” she said. “Another baby.” Still in its sac. It looked like a raw sausage. Georgie reached for one of Heather’s towels and started rubbing at the membrane. “Like this?”

Pizza girl looked up from her phone. “Harder, I think.”

Georgie scrubbed at the lump till the skin around it tore and she could see the grayish pink puppy inside.

“Is it alive?” Heather asked.

“I don’t know,” Georgie answered. The puppy was warm, but not warm as life. Georgie kept rubbing it clean, tears falling on her hand. Petunia whined, and Heather’s girl reached past Georgie into the dryer to pet her.

Heather knelt next to Georgie. “It is it alive?” She was crying, too.

“I don’t know.” The puppy twitched, and Georgie rubbed harder, massaging it with her hands.

“I think it’s breathing,” Heather said.

“It’s cold.” Georgie brought the puppy up to her chest and tucked it inside her sweatshirt, rubbing. The puppy shuddered and squeaked. “I think . . .”

Heather hugged Georgie. “Oh God.”

“Careful,” Georgie said.

Pizza girl sat back from the dryer cradling another puppy against her white shirt.

“Oh my God,” Heather said, and hugged her, too.

There were three puppies.

And three placentas.

Eventually Georgie thought to call her mom.

And then she called the vet, who talked them through cutting the last umbilical cord and making Petunia comfortable.