“But do I need to sand you?” she asked the walls. “Or will primer be enough?”

The animal heads on the wall stared back at her, and she could have sworn the taxidermy coyote by the fireplace smirked. Her mother was right: she needed to do something about her stuffed housemates. The attic would suffice for now.

Said attic, when she forced her way up its fold-out stairs, revealed a jumble of boxes, old bedframes, broken furniture, and decaying life jackets. She wiped a cobweb out of her eyes and frowned. Her Toyota Corolla didn’t have nearly enough space to haul the debris to the dump. She needed someone with a truck.

Morgan’s face popped into her mind.

She clarified her assessment: someone with a truck who hadn’t seen her fall into the Atlantic Ocean. I’ll rent one, she decided, and shoving aside the attractive alternative of taking her tea on the porch in the sunshine, she set to work.

• • •

Morgan pulled into the clinic at half past six.

“I’m starving.” Stevie dug around the glove box for a snack, and several syringes tumbled to the floor.

“Lil’s here.” Morgan nodded at the Subaru Crosstrek in the parking lot.

“But does she have snacks?”

“She has dog biscuits, and those really meaty chewy treats that smell like bacon.”

“Don’t tempt me.” Stevie jumped out of the truck and grabbed the kit to restock supplies while Morgan double-checked that none of the paperwork had fallen out of her battered clipboard. Content that all cases were accounted for, she headed for the back door, intentionally avoiding the lobby and the pet owners sitting in the chairs. At least ambulatory vets knew their schedule was going to get fucked, she reflected as she passed the sign that showed their office hours: 8:00-5:00. A beautiful lie.

Danielle Watson poked her head out of her office when Morgan entered the building. Short, gray-haired, and with the cold confidence common among livestock veterinarians, she looked out of place in her lurid sweater.

“What the hell are you wearing, Watson?” Morgan asked as she eyed the kittens frolicking on the lime green cotton.

“A client gave it to me, and it’s cold back here.”

Stevie, reappearing at the sound of Danielle’s voice, made the sign of the cross and backed away slowly, asking, “what’s wrong with cookies? Or a fruit basket?”

“There’s an Edible Arrangement in the kitchen. Morgan, I need to talk to you.”

Stevie slapped Morgan cheerfully on the back and made a beeline for the kitchen.

“What’s up?” Morgan asked as she settled into the spare chair in Danielle’s office. Danielle owned and managed the clinic, but she also saw appointments as needed. Today, she looked like a woman who had been puked on and/or shat on by too many fractious animals.

“Still no luck finding another ambulatory vet. Or even someone interested in a mixed practice with ambulatory on-call duties.” She took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. “I know you need a break, Morgan.”