Geneva Novak stared at the her dog's x-ray clipped to the light box on the wall. She tilted her head sideways and squinted at the contents of the dog’s stomach. The ipod was obvious—it was helpfully facing her—but she was stumped by the object protruding from the blurry mass that occupied half the stomach. It was rectangular, with two bright white bars. Only metal lit up like that.
I like this a lot. It arouses a lot of curiosity about what is going on here and what remedy there might be.
My only suggestion is to orient the reader to whose X-ray it is immediately. Without knowing it's a dog's, I immediately immerse my head into a person facing some troubling revelation about her/his own illness or injury, or perhaps relief that it's not as bad as feared. The story is not about that at all, so it might be better not to let the reader go down that path right off.
