2. Wren
WREN
The puppy on my exam table looks like a pincushion that grew legs.
“Sweetheart, what were you thinking?” I murmur, parting the soft fur around his muzzle with the tweezers. Another quill comes loose. He whimpers and tries to lick my wrist, tail thumping against the stainless steel.
“He wasn't thinking. That's the problem.” Paige leans against the counter, arms folded, scrubs covered in cat hair from her last patient. “Porcupines are not a chew toy, my dude.”
“Tell that to a six-month-old lab.”
“I'd have better luck explaining quantum physics to my ex.”
The puppy—Banjo, according to the chart—lets out a sigh that puffs his cheeks out, and I smile despite the tedium of the work. Quill by quill. The barbs catch when you pull, so you have to angle each one just right or you tear the tissue.
“Hold still, buddy. Almost there.”
Paige hums, then reaches over and grabs the chart, flipping a page she's already read twice. I can tell by the way her foot taps against the cabinet that she's working up to something.
“So.”
“So?”
“The Seven Sins Carnival is in town.”
I keep my eyes on the quill in my tweezers. “Mm.”
“My cousin saw them setting up out by the old fairgrounds this morning. Apparently, the Big Top is, like, huge. And there are seven guys doing the main act, and they're supposedly—” she pauses for effect, “—criminally hot.”
“Criminally hot is just code for ‘I'll regret it in the morning.'“
“Wren, live a little.” She bumps my hip with hers, and I shift my weight to brace against the table so my hand stays steady. “Come with me Saturday. I'll buy you cotton candy. I'll buy you a corn dog. I'll buy you the cheap stuffed prize from the ring toss.”
“Paige.”
“What?”
I set the tweezers down and look at her. “You know how I feel about that stuff.”
She rolls her eyes, but it's affectionate. “Here we go.”
“Carnivals. Circuses. Roadside zoos. They're moving every two weeks, the animals live in trailers, the handler is usually some guy who learned his trade by watching YouTube—”
Paige groans. “You don't know that.”
“I know enough. The USDA inspection rate on traveling shows is a joke.
Half of them aren't licensed at all, and the ones who are get inspected once a year if they're lucky.” I peel another quill free and drop it into the metal tray with a soft tink.
“The lions are declawed, the elephants have foot rot from standing in concrete trailers, and the trainers use bullhooks and call it ‘guidance.
' No. I'm not giving them my twenty bucks at the gate.”
Paige sighs. “You're a buzzkill, you know that?”
“I'm an informed buzzkill.”
Banjo licks the back of my hand, and his tongue is warm and a little sticky. I scratch behind his ear with my pinky so I don't break sterile field with the tweezers.
“Fine,” Paige says with exaggerated disappointment. “I'll go with Megan. You can stay home and watch—what was it last week? The documentary about the eels?”
“It was about octopuses, and it was incredible—”
The door to the exam room swings open, and Dr. Vance fills the frame.
My stomach drops to my socks.
He's got that look. The one where his mouth is a flat line and his eyes scan the room like he's tallying every infraction. Paige straightens off the counter so fast I hear her back crack.
“Is this a salon now?” he asks. “Are we braiding each other's hair?”
“Sorry, sir, we were just—” Paige starts.
“I don't recall asking.” His gaze swings to me. “Wren. Paige can finish with the dog.”
I sputter. “I'm almost done, I just need to—”
“Paige can finish with the dog.”
This reminds me of when I was eleven and Tasha Brennan tried to make me eat a frog. Same sadistic tone. Same flicker of pleasure behind the eyes when I shrink.
My fingers go cold around the tweezers.
“Yes, sir.” I set the instrument down. Wipe my hands on a towel. Keep my face very still, because if I let any of it show, he'll find a reason to make tomorrow worse.
“The carnival called.” His mouth twists like he's bitten into something rotten. “The one out at the fairgrounds. They've got an injured capuchin, and they want it seen today. I told them you'd be out within the hour.”
Paige and I lock eyes for half a second. Hers go wide. I feel mine do the same.
“A capuchin.”
Vance doesn’t even blink. “That's what I said.”
“Did they say what happened?”
“Do I look like the intake form, Wren?” He pushes off the doorframe. “Get your kit. Bill them double for the house call. And try not to get bitten. I don't want to fill out a workers' comp claim because you got handsy with a monkey.”
The door swings shut behind him.
The exam room is very quiet.
Banjo lets out a soft whuff and rests his chin on my forearm, oblivious. I stare at the wall above the autoclave for a long moment, the heat climbing the back of my neck.
“Wren.” Paige's voice is gentle now. The teasing gone. “He's a dick. Don't let him—”
“I know.” I unclip my stethoscope and loop it around my neck. Then I grab my jacket off the hook. “I'm fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
I'm not. But that's a separate problem for a separate evening, probably with a glass of wine and the octopus documentary.
I gather my field kit from the supply closet, double-checking the sedation drawer, the suture pack, the gauze. My hands move on autopilot while my brain runs ahead of me, down the highway, out to the fairgrounds.
A carnival. With an injured monkey. On day one of setup.
“I knew it,” I mutter, zipping the kit closed. “I called this exact scenario not ten minutes ago, and the universe heard me and said hold my beer.”
“Take pictures,” Paige calls after me as I push through the door. “For the report. Or for me. Whichever.”
“For the report.”
“Both. Take them for both.”
I'm already halfway down the hall.