Page 5 of Fool Moon First Aid

“Babe, there are three of them. Just think about the possibilities,” Eloise says, her laughter mischievous and infectious. “Ever tried double penetration?”

“Like, one in the pink and one in the stink?” I venture, trying to keep a straight face.

“Nope,” she replies, her eyes alight with a challenge. “I’m talking about two in the same?—”

“Enough!” I exclaim, feeling my cheeks flush with shock and amusement. “Out, now!” I point emphatically at the door.

“See you Monday!” Eloise calls, her laughter echoing down the hall as she strides toward her intriguing night.

Once the door shuts, I turn my attention back to the charts, sighing as I settle into the rhythm of my work. “Bean, you better come out soon, or no yummy mouse for you,” I warn, though we both know she’ll get her mouse.

When I’m halfway through the first chart, an insistent sensation, like a tiny inferno, erupts in my pocket. It’s not just heat, but a fierce curiosity that compels me to download that app. Reluctantly, I pull out my phone, its screen glowing in the dim light of my cluttered office, and start browsing the app store. Deep down, I’ve always known which app Eloise was talking about, but who really wants to admit they are turning to an app for their happily ever after?

Not this self-reliant veterinarian. No thank you.

I’ve dabbled in those mundane human apps before. Most of them are nothing but a ticket to a disappointing rendezvous in some dingy alley. Been there, done that, got the T-shirt. Never again. Feeling both defiant and resigned, I tap download before tossing my phone onto a pile of scattered papers and veterinary journals across the room.

“What are you doing, Ava?” I chide myself, massaging my temples with ink stained fingers, already regretting my impulsive decision. “Your mom would have thrown a fit.” True, Mama didn’t exactly hate spiritkins, she just didn’t embrace them with open arms like some did.

And what would Daddy think of this latest escapade?

Glancing at the clock, I note it’s almost four in the afternoon—time to close up the clinic. The charts can wait until tomorrow. “All right, Bean, let’s head home,” I announce to the empty room, standing up to shed my well-worn lab coat. I drape it carelessly over the back of my chair.

That’s when a subtle movement catches my eye. “Bean?” My gaze homes in on the bookshelf, a towering, old thing crammed with medical textbooks and various knickknacks. “Bean,” I repeat, a mix of astonishment and annoyance coloring my tone. She somehow slithered her way up to the top, and she’s peering down at me with a triumphant gleam in her eyes. “And how am I supposed to rescue you from there?”

I grab the rickety folding chair from the corner, its metal legs screeching against the tiled floor. Placing it in front of the bookshelf, I hesitantly step onto it. This isn’t the most sensible decision I’ve ever made, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I remember asking Dad for a stool for such occasions, and he responded with his typical teasing, suggesting I just grow a few more inches instead.

I balance precariously, but I’m still a few inches short of reaching Bean. Biting my lip, I gingerly step onto a lower shelf, already envisioning the potential disaster.

“Bean,” I coax softly, watching her tongue flick out to taste the air, curious yet cautious. Stretching as much as I can, I almost brush her scales. “Come on, girl, time to climb down.” She inches forward, tempted by my voice. Reaching even farther, I almost feel her within my grasp, but then I shift my weight a bit too much, and a sense of impending doom washes over me.

Time seems to crawl to a halt, but it’s no ally. My arms flail in a desperate attempt to regain balance, and then, in a moment of panic, I grab for the bookshelf.

Big mistake.

In a surreal, slow-motion collapse, the bookshelf and I crash backward. One second, I’m reaching for Bean, and the next, everything is a blur as we hit the ground with a thunderous crash, the bookshelf pinning me beneath it.

Later, I might reflect on how my brain, anticipating the pain, blocked out the memories.

Now, with Bean awkwardly perched on my neck and my breathing becoming labored, I notice my phone, the screen flickering with the newly downloaded app, lying just within reach. It’s mocking me.

Trying to detach myself from the reality of my current predicament, I awkwardly wiggle my arm out from under the shelf and grasp the phone. Fortunately, I don’t need to do much. With a rapid series of clicks on the side button, it effortlessly handles the hard part for me, even activating the speakerphone.

“911, what’s your emergency?” comes the reply, sounding almost too cheerful for the situation.

Gasping for breath, I manage to get out, “Shelf. Snake. Fall,” and then I let my head fall back with a thump. My brain should have had the decency to knock me out, but no. Here I am, painfully awake and aware. It seems my brain already did its part by fast-forwarding through the actual fall, sparing me the immediate sensation of the crash.

My ankle throbs with an intense pain, signaling it’s probably broken.

“Ma’am, do you have an emergency?” The voice on the other end sounds more alert now.

“Yep,” I wheeze out. “Ava Martinez,” I rasp, feeling a sharp pain in my side. Oh yeah, that’s definitely a broken rib. I might be a veterinarian, but I know enough about human anatomy to recognize that.

Meanwhile, Bean, unfazed by the chaos she’s caused, curls up on my neck and drifts off to sleep. The audacity of her acting as if she’s not responsible for this fiasco is almost comical.

“Can you tell me your location, Ava?” I hear typing in the background.

“Vet Clinic on Main,” I gasp out between sharp intakes of breath. Breathing is becoming a real challenge now.

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