Ivy’s mouth twitched. “Exam Room Two.”
May grabbed fresh gloves and headed down the hall, already bracing herself. The clinic smelled faintly of antiseptic and coffee. Outside, the morning light was bright and relentless. Alaska didn’t ease into the day.
She stepped into the room and stopped short.
A man in his early thirties sat stiffly on the exam table, shoulders locked, head hanging at an awkward angle. He wore a white T-shirt and had folded his blue flannel next to him.
“Hi,” May said automatically.
“Hi.” He turned.
May winced.
A treble fishing lure was embedded in the side of his neck, one barb buried deep just below the sternocleidomastoid. The remaining hooks dangled uselessly, metal glinting under the overhead light.
“That has to hurt,” she said.
He kept perfectly still. “Caught a little fish this morning.”
Ivy snorted behind her, quickly disguising it as a cough.
May stepped closer, shifting into calm clinical mode. “Name?”
“Mick Thompson. Up from California.” He gave her a crooked grin despite the situation. “Saw you at the bar the other night.”
“You probably saw everyone at the tavern,” May said, already assessing the wound. No active bleeding. Good. No expanding hematoma. Even better. “Want to tell me how this happened?”
“My brother’s a moron.”
May’s lips twitched. “That’s usually the mechanism of injury in cases like this.” She examined the entry point carefully. The barb was seated firmly, and removal wouldn’t be pleasant. “All right. It’s lodged pretty well. I’m going to numb the area and remove it. Do you have any known allergies?”
He shook his head carefully. “None.”
May glanced at the chart Ivy had handed her. Mick had done a good job filling out the questionnaire. No allergies. No significant medical history. Thirty-five years old. Healthy. “Have you been drinking alcohol, Mr. Thompson?”
“Call me Mick, and it’s ten in the morning.”
She studied his clear eyes. “Yeah, but you’re on vacation.”
He gingerly reached toward the wound. “No alcohol. Not even a Bloody Mary. We got up early and went out for some simple fishing at Naluk’s Pond.”
May paused mid-prep. “Naluk’s?”
“Yeah.”
“That pond’s on private property owned by Ben Naluk,” she warned him.
Mick blinked. “It is? A couple of locals told us all about it. Said we could relax and drop in a line for a little while to catch some Arctic Char.”
“The pond has delicious Arctic Char,” May agreed. In fact, Ben paid her with copious amounts of the sumptuous fish whenever the elderly man needed medical care, which was rare. “However, Mr. Naluk doesn’t like trespassers and is absolutely fine leading with his shotgun and not his words.” Oh, Ben probably wouldn’t have shot them, but he might’ve fired at a tree or two.
Mick’s eyes widened. “That’s not good.”
May accepted the syringe from Ivy. “This will pinch a little.”
He held still as she infiltrated lidocaine around the wound.
“You’re lucky you weren’t shot at the pond.” May might as well help Ben keep visitors off his property. She waited a beat, then tested the area gently. “Can you feel this?”
