Page 85 of Josephine and Clay

Boone makes a quiet sound that might almost be a laugh.

I glance at him. “You’d be surprised how often I have to apologize to livestock.”

“Probably not as surprised as you think.”

The calf is mildly dehydrated. Weak, but responsive. No obvious respiratory distress, no severe bloat, no major injury that I can feel, though there’s stiffness in one hind leg that makes me pause.

I run my hand down carefully, palpating joints, watching her reaction.

“There,” I murmur when she flinches.

Boone steps closer. “What is it?”

“Possibly a strain. Maybe she slipped or got stepped on. But that doesn’t explain all of it.” I check her gums again, then reach into my bag. “She needs fluids, and I want to get some electrolytes into her. I’m also going to give an anti-inflammatory and see if we can get her stronger.”

“You think she’ll be alright?”

“I think you called before it turned critical,” I say. “That helps.”

He exhales through his nose, relief controlled but present.

I prepare the injection, keeping my hands still. This is what I know. This is who I am when everything else feels unstable. Calm voice, a clean needle, and the correct dosage. One step followed by another.

The calf barely reacts.

“Good girl,” I whisper.

Then I pull my small emergency kit closer.

It’s ridiculous, really. Penny teased me about it when she first saw it, calling it my “tiny apocalypse purse,” but I’ve carried some version of it for years. Vet wrap, antiseptic wipes, extra gloves, thermometer, saline, bandage scissors, sugar packets, gauze, a penlight. Things I don’t always need but hate not having.

Today, I need half of it.

The calf’s leg has a small scrape hidden beneath dirt and dried mud. Not bad, but irritated enough that it could be contributing to her reluctance to stand.

I clean it, flushing carefully while Boone watches. “You always carry all that?”

“Yes.”

“Prepared.”

“Anxious,” I correct before I think better of it.

His eyes flick briefly to my face.

I focus on the bandage. “Prepared sounds better.”

“Both can be useful.”

Once the scrape is clean and wrapped, I prepare oral electrolytes and coax the calf into taking some. She resists at first, then swallows.

“There we go,” I say softly. “That’s it.”

The cow huffs behind me.

“I know,” I tell her without looking back. “I’m bothering your baby. I’m also helping.”

Boone definitely laughs that time.