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I watched.

Professional habit.

"You can threaten them," I said. "Your grip strength is embarrassing."

Doc's white eyebrows climbed.

The ranch hand at my table coughed into his fist to hide a laugh.

"Suppose being lead tech has made you intolerable," Doc said.

"It was always there. You gave it institutional support."

That got the laugh out.

Doc pointed his coffee at me. "Dose that pen before noon, Jos."

"Yes, boss."

I turned back to the vaccination table with warmth under my breastbone that had nothing to do with the May sun.

Lead tech.

Doc had said it in his office the week after the storm, like he was accusing me of something.

Suppose you'll want paying more, good as you are.

Then he had put the new contract in front of me, salary underlined, emergency-call rate circled, clinic keys resting on top.

I had signed my name without apologizing.

Now his lead tech stood in Boone's red flannel with the sleeves rolled four times and the tails hanging nearly to my knees. My old barn coat had finally lost the right to conceal me. It stayed on its hook unless the weather needed it.

The flannel smelled like sun, woodsmoke, and him.

That was probably not professional.

I kept the syringes straight anyway.

Biscuit worked beneath the table, inspecting boots, dropped gloves, and every calf that came through the alley. She had appointed herself head of operations. Nobody had given her the job, but that had never stopped a Calloway.

A calf bawled in the chute.

"Two cc respiratory," I said.

The ranch hand drew it up.

"Fresh needle."

"I just changed it."

"Three calves ago."

He looked at the syringe. Then at me.

"Fresh needle," he agreed.

"Good choice."