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The drain had run clear. Freak would live. That part, at least, had worked. The wound was closed. The antibiotics were in his system. The drugs had worn off by now. He was probably awake somewhere in a clubhouse I’d never seen, complaining about the headache, telling the story, becoming legend.

I closed my eyes. The numbers didn’t stop. They ran behind my eyelids in the dark.

The paper in my pocket crinkled when I shifted. Patch’s handwriting. His number.

I didn’t reach for my phone.

Dawn came through the blinds in thin gray lines. I watched it until my eyes burned and my body gave up and sleep took me sideways into something that wasn’t rest.

* * *

Tessa came through the door mid-sentence about highway construction. Her scrubs were covered in cartoon dachshunds. Her nails were chipped coral, fresh from last weekend, already wearing at the edges.

“… so I’m sitting there behind three semis and this guy in a Prius who thinks forty is the speed limit, and I’m like, hello, some of us have jobs that start at eight, and also my coffee is getting cold, which is a crime against humanity… Oh hey, Maren. You look like shit.”

I was behind the front desk. Had been for twenty minutes. I’d driven back to the clinic early because staying home meant lying on the covers staring at the ceiling, and the ceiling had nothing new to say. Nothing visible remained of the night except the hollow feeling behind my sternum and the paper in my pocket.

“Thanks,” I said.

“No, like, respectfully. You look like you didn’t sleep. Which, same, because my neighbor’s dog barked at a leaf for three hours, but you look like you didn’t sleep and then ran a marathon backward. In the rain. With weights.”

I handed her the day’s schedule. “Mrs. Keller’s bringing in the Lab at nine. Limping. Left fore. Probably a thorn. She’ll say it’s cancer.”

Tessa took the schedule without looking at it. “And then she’ll ask if we do payment plans, and then Gerry will say yes, and then we’ll never see the money. Story of my life.” She dropped her bag behind the desk. “I’m calling dibs on the first coffee run. Don’t even try to stop me.”

The phone rang. She answered it. Her voice shifted into the practiced warmth of front-desk Tessa, all yes ma’am and thank you for calling and let me check that for you. I watched her coral nails tap the keyboard. Watched her scrubs shift as she leaned forward to write something down. Watched the complete, unbroken normalcy of her Saturday morning.

Nothing had happened here. Not as far as she knew.

Gerry strolled in at eight-fifteen. Fleece vest. Stained left pocket. Reading glasses pushed into his thin gray hair at the angle that meant they’d been there since breakfast. He set his travel mug on the counter and patted it twice. Habit.

“Autoclave running?” he asked.

“Of course,” I said.

“Good. Good.” He nodded. The nod turned into a stretch. His back cracked audibly. “You know this reminds me of the Rottweiler. ‘95, maybe ‘96. Mercy General. Third year of my residency. This dog comes in, massive thing, hundred and forty pounds if he was an ounce, and he’s got a tennis ball stuck in his throat. Not choking. Stuck. Wedged right in the pharynx. Owner’s a little league coach, panic mode, carrying the dog through the ER doors like it’s a sack of potatoes.”

I’d heard this one. Twelve times, minimum.

“The man’s hysterical. ‘Save him, save him, he’s my best friend,’ and I’m thinking, sir, your best friend weighs more than I do and is currently attempting to swallow my arm. So I get him on the table…”

Tessa was on the phone. I was behind the desk. The controlled-substance binder sat on the shelf below the counter where it always sat. Black three-ring. Red stripe along the spine. The key was on my ring. It had been on my ring for years.

I pulled the binder out. Opened it to the log. The page was where I’d left it. Yesterday’s date.

I could adjust the evening column. Right now. My pen was in my hand. The number would match. Everything would balance. Gerry would initial it tomorrow without looking. The state board would see a clean count. Nobody would know.

My hand didn’t move.

I closed the binder. Set it back on the shelf. The pen went into my pocket. The lie stayed where it was, unpacked, unused.

“Maren?”

Tessa was off the phone. Looking at me. Her head tilted. “You okay? You’ve been staring at that binder for like two full minutes.”

“I’m fine,” I said. “Just checking the count.”

“Boring. Also, Mrs. Pearson’s on line two. She says Mr. Whiskers is doing the ear thing again and can she come in at three instead of four because she has bridge at four-thirty and the ladies get testy if she’s late.”