“That’s progress.”
“I suppose.”
“And the patients?”
I tell her about Old Angus repeatedly coming in with imaginary symptoms, Mrs. Campbell finally admitting she just needed someone to talk to, young Hendricks breaking his arm after falling out of a tree.
Mary listens carefully, asking questions.
Then she tells me her own stories. The border collie with gastritis. The cat refusing to eat. Ragnar biting a tourist.
“He bit someone?” I ask, startled.
“Just a small bite. The tourist tried to pet him without permission.”
“Ragnar never gives permission.”
“Exactly.”
We finish eating.
Mary stands to clear the table, and I stand too.
“I’ll do the dishes.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“What?” I ask. “I do, in fact, possess fully functional hands.”
“I noticed.”
We settle in front of the sink side by side.
I wash. She dries.
It feels strangely...
comfortable.
Like we’ve been doing this for years.
At one point, our hands brush when I pass her a plate.
The contact is brief.
Electric.
Neither of us says anything.
Movement outside the window catches my attention.
Ragnar is standing there.
The sheep watches us intently for a full minute before slowly wandering away again.
“I think Ragnar’s spying on us,” I say.
Mary laughs.
