I finish Whiskers’ exam—perfectly healthy, as I suspected—and hand him back to his owner. "Mrs. Patterson, your cat is fine. I'll see you in six months for his next checkup."
"Unless I need to bring him in sooner." She tucks Whiskers into his carrier with a wink. "For observation."
The door swings shut behind her, and I slump against the exam table.
Linda appears in the doorway, coffee mug in hand. "Mrs. Patterson pumping you for intel?"
"Mrs. Patterson is eighty-three years old and has more romantic interest in my love life than I do."
"That tracks." Linda takes a sip. "Also, Mr. Hendricks called. He wants to bring Buster in for a nail trim, but I'm pretty sure it's actually because his wife wants the full story about the base visit."
"How does Mrs. Hendricks even know about the base visit?"
"Small town." Linda shrugs. "Also, I think Sophie told Carla, who told Anya at Timberline, who told basically everyone who came in for coffee this morning."
"I'm going to kill Sophie."
"You say that every week."
"This week I mean it."
“You say that every week, too.”
The morning continues in the same vein. Two more patients with suspiciously vague symptoms, three more rounds of questions I deflect with increasing irritation. By lunch, I'm ready to barricade myself in the supply closet and pretend the outside world doesn't exist.
Instead, I make the tactical error of going to Maggie's Place for takeout.
The diner is half-full of the usual lunch crowd—retirees nursing coffee, a couple of soldiers from the base grabbing burgers, Tomás from the auto shop eating alone at the counter. The smell of bacon and fresh pie wraps around me like a guilty pleasure.
Maggie spots me the second I walk through the door.
"There she is." She emerges from behind the counter, coffee pot in hand, smile knowing. "Pine Valley's most talked-about veterinarian."
"I'm Pine Valley's only veterinarian."
"Makes you easy to talk about." She gestures toward an empty stool at the counter. "Sit. I'll get your usual."
"I was just going to grab something to go?—"
"Sit."
I sit. When Maggie O'Rourke uses that tone, you sit.
She disappears into the kitchen, and I take the opportunity to pull out my phone and pretend to be busy. Maybe if I look occupied, nobody will try to?—
"Hey, Callie."
A woman slides onto the stool next to me, wild auburn curls escaping from a messy bun, freckles scattered across her nose. She's wearing cargo pants and work boots, and there's a smudge of dirt on her cheek that suggests she's been doing something outdoors and practical.
Andrea O'Rourke—Andi to everyone who knows her—Maggie's daughter. We're not close, but we're friendly enough. She works out at the base doing something with wildlife management that I've never fully understood.
"Hey, Andi." I pocket my phone. "How's work?"
"Busy. Bird strike season's picking up." She waves at her mother, who's emerging from the kitchen with two plates. "Trying to keep the runways clear so pilots don't end up with geese in their engines."
"Sounds glamorous."
"It's mostly just me yelling at birds and filing paperwork." She grins. "But I hear you've been spending time on base too. Kennel consultation?"
