I turned and scanned Tom’s yard, looking toward the red pines and ashy shagbark hickories that hid the creek running along the edge of Tom’s property.

Taking off toward those trees, I shouted Dashiell’s name but slowed as the lawn sloped toward the water. What if Dashiell’s blood sugar plummeted? Or went sky-high from him eating birds, or even fish from the creek? What if he fell into the water? What if he was swept away?

Tears filled my eyes. Ever since Tom’s big sweet Dashiell had been diagnosed, he’d had major swings in his sugar levels. But Tom was now an expert at testing a drop of blood from the cat’s ear and keeping him as well as possible. What would two days without insulin do? Or would lack of food be the bigger problem? My gosh, was he dead?

My heart sped even faster at the thought. First Tom is incommunicado, and now this.

I reached the trees and called Dashiell’s name again, this time in a more gentle tone. I shouldn’t transfer my fear to him, especially if he was nearby and in trouble.

No meows in reply.

I scanned the blanket of decaying leaves and russet pine needles. Cats tend to stay close to where they feel safe, especially when they’re sick, and I was counting on that. Dashiell’s brown stripes would camouflage him out here, though.

I took deep breaths, calmed myself. Focus, Jillian.

Deciding I needed to block out the distraction of the gurgling creek water tumbling over rocks toward the lake, I stood as still as a statue and took several calming breaths. Then I let my gaze sweep slowly over the grass and leaves, as far to the right as I could see, then to the left where a fence separated Tom’s yard from his neighbor’s, then to the right again.