Page 73 of Spiced!

I reached for it, but left it untouched.

Thankfully, the rest of the morning ran the way clinic mornings ran. A labrador wellness check. Four cat follow-ups. Three puppies, none of whom were as cute as Mofongo.

Why I compared puppies to Mofongo was . . . shit . . . it was irrelevant, damn it.

The rabbit from the prior week returned because his owner had implemented the more-hay recommendation and wanted to report that outcomes were positive. I confirmed by examining a rabbit who required no intervention and seemed quietly satisfied about this.

Between patients, I sat at my desk and stared at the tapir’s file. Something about the imaging just wasn’t adding up. My theory had holes I couldn’t plug. My brain knew it but refused to zoom in on exactly what was going on.

Marisol’s latest monitoring reports had come in overnight. The pattern was consistent. She was having intermittent episodes with behavioral shifts in the hours preceding them, which resolved without intervention. I was starting to frame that as concerning.

The direction I had been developing was sharpening, which meant it was either right or monumentally wrong. I needed the behavioral footage from Dr. Reyes before I could determine which, so I called her at eleven-thirty.

“The monitoring footage from last Thursday,” I said. “Can you send me the two hours preceding the episode?”

“I’ll have it to you this afternoon,” she said. “Are you seeing something?”

“I’m trying to see something,” I said. “But who knows? I could be stabbing in the dark here. I don’t want to get your hopes up until I feel more confident.”

After I hung up, Diane appeared in my doorway with a sandwich and a scowl.

“Marcus called the order in,” she said.

“Did you know Marcus is in a group chat with my brother?”

“I’ve been invited,” she said. “I’m assessing before I commit.”

I covered my face with both hands and groaned.

She set the sandwich on my desk, looked at me, at the desk, then back at me. “You were humming again yesterday.”

“I don’t hum.”

“Something with a snappy beat, possibly a drum line. I stood in the doorway for forty-five seconds, and you didn’t even notice me. Doc, you notice everything, but you didn’t have a clue I was even there.” She presented this as an attorney presenting evidence without making an accusation. “That’s never happened before.”

“People hum.”

“You aren’t people. You don’t hum.” She leaned on the doorframe. “I’m not asking about it, just noting it.”

“Your notation is noted,” I said, offering a grin I didn’t feel. She glared a moment longer before spinning on a heel and retreating to her duties.

I ate the sandwich and squinted at the imaging and refused to examine what humming meant or whether it meant anything at all.

It was Tuesday. Sunday had been good. That was the full extent of what I knew, and I was comfortable knowing only that much.

Without thinking, I turned my phone over.

The group chat had twenty-three messages.

Alan had created a poll asking everyone to rate my emotional availability on a scale of one to ten.

Marcus had voted seven.

Tasha had voted six point five, which was not one of the options. She had submitted it anyway, because Tasha would never feel constrained by designated options.

Alan had voted five.

From my brother, on a scale where ten was fully emotionally available, five was an act of genuine brotherly love.