“You need to name him,” Rory tells Jacob, talking about a fawn someone brought to the clinic just this morning. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit the baby deer was cute as fuck, but it’s way too much work for me.
“He’s going back to the wild as soon as he’s old enough,” Jacob reminds our sister. “Naming him makes it harder to let go.”
“You’re such a softie,” Rory teases, smiling as she closes her folders. “No peeking at how the game ends.”
Mason rolls his eyes and takes a swig of Jacob’s beer. “Don’t tempt me.”
Dean gives Rory a quick kiss goodbye and the three of us set out, stepping into the night. It’s cool tonight, the air still holding onto the chill from the storm. Lights loom up ahead, and the horses in the pasture next to us stir, nickering softly in hopes someone will bring them food. I grew up with livestock and might have been the reigning 4H Champion in the cattle project for three years in a row.
That life is far behind me now, but it comes rushing back fast. Both Mom and Dad were softies, as Rory put it, and couldn’t say no when Jacob would bring home an injured animal. When I was in fifth grade and wanted a dog, Dad took me to the animal shelter and we left with three pitbull puppies. We had horses and llamas through my childhood, and in the back of my mind, I assumed I might end up back here whenever I had kids of my own, giving them a similar childhood.
Jacob punches in the security code and lets us into the clinic, flicking on the lights.
“Wow,” Rory tells him, looking around. It’s the first time either of us has set foot in this new building. “It’s gorgeous!”
“Thanks,” Jacob says, hurrying to get into the back. Rory and I might not treat animals, but we get it. The rushed panic that’s more productive than not. It’s like a switch is flipped and you’re in emergency-mode. We start prepping the OR, which is similar in more ways than I thought to the operating rooms I’m used to, though it’s lacking several machines for obvious reasons.
“Can one of you get that?” Jacob asks when someone knocks on the glass doors at the front of the clinic.
“I got it,” I say, carefully setting a set of clean surgical tools down. I’m still in my jeans and a t-shirt, a far cry from what I’m used to wearing when I’m putting my patients to sleep, managing not only their pain but their overall vitals.
Two people stand by the front doors, and a large dog is wrapped up in a blanket, weight supported by both women. I twist back the lock and let them in.
“Thank you so much,” the woman rushes out. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a messy bun, and mascara runs down her cheeks from her tears. “Oh, you’re…you’re not Dr. Harris.”
“I actually am,” I say, helping the two women inside. “I’m his brother.”
“Oh,” the woman says, struggling to hold back tears. “Is he here?”
“Yeah, he’s getting ready for…” I look at the dog, who looks like some sort of golden retriever mix. Blood is soaking through the purple blanket he’s wrapped in, and he’s in bad shape.
“Tigger,” the woman answers, tears rolling down her face.
“Let me help you,” I tell them and take Tigger from her arms, carrying him into the back. Jacob and Rory are in the surgery room. I bring the dog in and lay him on the table. Jacob gets right to work, and I help get the dog put under. The dog has an obvious broken leg and probably a ton of internal damage.
“I can tell you two are brothers,” the crying blonde woman says when I come out of the room. Two vet techs responded to the emergency call, and Rory is staying in to assist if need be. “You look alike.”
“I’m better-looking,” I say with a wink, and she smiles.
“Are you a vet too?” she asks, looking through the window at her dog.
“No, I’m an anesthesiologist.”
“Oh, wow. Lucky you were here.”
“Things have a way of working out like that. I’m—”
“Sam,” the other blonde woman says. She looked familiar right away, but I couldn’t place her. “You’re Sam Harris.”
“Yeah, and sorry, but you are…?”
“Lauren.” She brushes her messy hair back. “We went to high school together. I was a grade below you, though.” Pausing, she waits to see if it sparks any recognition. I slowly shake my head. “I was Lauren Wallace back then,” she says, and the name rings a bell. Lauren Wallace…Lauren Wallace…Lauren…yes, I remember her now. Vaguely…very vaguely.
“Yeah, I got it now. So, uh, how have you been?”
“Good.” She smiles again and inches closer. “I’ve been in Detroit and just moved back and am staying with my sister.” She looks at Tigger’s owner. “I got divorced last year,” she adds. “So I’m a single lady once again. What about you?” Her eyes go to my left hand. “Anyone special in your life?”