I thought of calling Aunt Lyssa. Maybe I would hear her real voice this time—not just that recorded message telling me to speak at the sound of the tone. It was almost time for her to be back from her lunch break at the library. I thought, too, of calling Grama Delia. If anyone would understand what was happening, she would. Even though some folks think she’s full of superstitions and old beliefs that mean nothing, I’ve always known different.

The last time I was there a bird had flown in through the open window of her little house. It was a small brown flycatcher. It had darted around, fluttering its wings and chirping. But it hadn’t seemed frantic and it didn’t touch anything before it flew out again. Grama Delia and I had looked at each other.

We had both smiled. She didn’t even have to tell me that we had just experienced a good omen.

A good omen. I looked back up at the clock. Only one more minute had passed. I needed a good omen now as I sat in the waiting room. But I didn’t call Grama Delia. I couldn’t make my fingers press the numbers. I just couldn’t call anyone until I found out how Bootsie was.

At least three full years went by before Doc Fox came out into the waiting room, even though the clock on the wall tried to pretend it had only been forty-five minutes. He was shaking his head.

I stood up, so quickly it made me feel a little dizzy. I just knew he was going to tell me that my Bootsie was dead. It would be just like it was when I was in the hospital and I woke up and they told me. . . .

But Doc Fox thrust out his hand, motioning for me to sit down, be calm. “She’s okay,” he said. “She’ll be fine. I’ll keep her here overnight.” Then he held out both his big paws, palms up.

“Madeline,” he asked, “what?”

I knew what he meant by that single word. What happened to Bootsie? What did that to her? I shook my head. He nodded his head back at me and growled under his breath. It was like we were two bears, communicating like bears do when they move their heads back and forth to show they are feeling amicable.

“I worked awhile,” he said, “at a zoo. Two tigers had a fight. Had to sedate ’em, stitch them up.” He paused and looked up at one of his degrees on the wall, as if some kind of answer was written there.

I nodded, getting this creepy feeling that I knew where he was going with this.

“Thing is,” he said, “Bootsie’s wounds are like that. Wide, deep, like tiger claws.”

9

SOMETHING WORSE