Diesel Changes

The second Diesel crossed the threshold, something in him shifted.

His ears went stiff. His nose twitched rapidly. He ignored the children’s laughter drifting from the playroom. He ignored the scent of crackers and juice. He ignored the bright smiles of the staff.

He went straight down the hallway, claws clicking against the floor. His head lowered. His pace slowed. His eyes narrowed.

“Sorry,” James said, embarrassed, giving the leash a tug. “He’s just curious.”

But Diesel didn’t look curious. He looked focused.

And then he turned into the nap room.

---

The Scratching

At first, it was subtle. Diesel sniffed along the edge of a colorful foam rug, circling slowly. He pressed his nose hard into the laminate, pulling in long breaths. Then, without warning, he began to dig.

His claws scraped furiously against the floor, loud enough to drown out the lullaby music playing softly over the speakers. His body stiffened. His tail went rigid. A low growl rumbled in his chest—not aggression, but warning.

James felt his stomach tighten.

“Diesel, what is it, boy?”

The dog dug harder. The rug shifted. And there it was: a faint seam in the floorboards. A square, about the size of a crate, painted over sloppily with a shade that didn’t quite match.

James crouched down, tapped the wood. Hollow.

He tapped again. Hollow.

He looked at Marlene.

“What’s under here?”

Her smile flickered. “Nothing. That section’s always been uneven. Old glue.”

James frowned. He’d been on the force for years. He knew when someone was lying.

Diesel barked once, sharp. Then again, louder, echoing through the daycare like a siren.

Children in the hallway froze. One little boy pressed himself into the doorway, clutching a stuffed bear. His wide eyes locked on the floor.