“Can I pet that weird horse?” a little boy asked, holding the hand of a little girl I assumed was his sister, near my truck. His sister was wearing a shirt depicting a gray cat with a long red tongue and a green tutu. He was wearing a Superman shirt.

“You mean this naughty alpaca right here who escaped from my truck?”

“Yes!” He grinned. “Yes. Is he a bad Al Paca?”

“She is a bad alpaca.”

He giggled. His little sister meowed like a cat, then they both petted and hugged Virginia Alpaca. Not all alpaca are nice. They can be bad-tempered. But not Virginia.

Other kids ran up to pet her, and I discovered how she wriggled out of the car: Virginia Alpaca had somehow, inexplicably, opened the door handle with a hoof. She had watched me walk into the bookstore and had come to find me. She is an adventuresome soul, and she doesn’t like to be alone.

We drove off, Virginia Alpaca’s head sticking out the window, people waving and laughing as we drove through town toward my handsome vet.

* * *

When I arrived at Marco’s vet clinic, there were a number of people with their pets in the waiting room, including a sheep, two dogs, and an iguana, which was lovingly held by a little girl named Bella Mae, who was crying. Bella Mae was wearing a purple shirt with a green iguana on it that said IGUANA LOVER.

“Miss Evie, can you tell me if Mr. Pitto is going to die?”

“No,” I told her, knowing this kid and knowing what she was really asking. “I can’t tell you that. I’m not a vet.”

“I know that. But you can see the future with your magic crystals.” She sniffed, sobbed.

And there it was. “No, I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.” She stopped crying, and her face scrunched in frustration. She stomped her foot. “Everyone knows it, Miss Evie. Everybody on this whole island knows you’re magic. So tell me: Is Mr. Pitto going to be okay?”

The day I start getting premonitions about animals’ health and demise is the day I take a sailboat out to the middle of the ocean and sink it while singing, “I’m a crazy fool.” I took a guess. “Yes. He’s going to be fine.”

“He is?” Her face lit up.

“Yes.”

Her mother looked at me, relieved. I’ve known her mother, Jolla, since I was thirteen.

“See? Now can we go home, Bella Mae?” Jolla said. “Mr. Pitto is an iguana. I’ve told you it’s normal for him not to move much.”

“No. I’m going to talk to Dr. Marco about Mr. Pitto because he’s being too quiet.” Bella Mae stomped her foot again and glared at her mother. Then she stuck out the iguana with both hands so he could glare at her mother, too. I thought Mr. Pitto did a fine job of glaring.

“She’s exactly like you,” I said to Jolla.

“She’s rebellious and difficult,” Jolla said. She seemed frazzled.