“It’s not a problem.” Rachel handed Shannon the billing sheet for the dog’s exam and vaccinations. “We can call her ‘Puppy’ on her file for now and change it when you decide on a name.” “No!” the girl, a freckled eight-year-old named Annabelle, cried. “She needs a name now. I want to call her Cindy.” The little terrier yipped. “See?” The boy, ten-year-old Maverick, looked triumphant. “She doesn’t like it either. Her name oughta be Cinder, ’cause she’s mostly black.” “Compromise, children,” a familiar voice said. Rachel turned. Winter Jones stood behind her, an imperious figure in a long black coat. “Call your puppy Deeder,” Winter declared. “Huh?” the boy said. What was the woman doing here? She didn’t have an appointment, and she didn’t appear to have a cat with her.
