Page 86 of Dr. Attending

Morgan shrugs, closing the door behind her. “I mean . . . itcouldbe a medical emergency.”

“Care to elaborate?” I ask, crossing my arms as I lean against her living room wall. “Or are you going to make me guess?”

I love her to death, and I’m grateful for her friendship, but I don’t have the mental capacity to tolerate her flair for hyperbole at the moment.

Morgan lets out an exaggerated sigh and flops onto her couch like she’s trying to melt into it. “Do I need a prescription for a vaccine if it’s something that isn’t routine?”

I frown because her question catches me off guard. “What kind of vaccine?”

Most drug stores should carry whatever she needs, but sometimes more obscure vaccines require an appointment first to make sure it’s in stock. At least, I think that’s the case . . . I’m sure I’ll find out once I do my internal medicine rotation.

“Rabies,” she mutters, staring at the ceiling fan like she’s in some sort of trance. “Though, I’m probably too far gone already.”

That makes my ears perk up because I know she’s recently gotten into feeding her neighborhood squirrels. She even bought a birdhouse with food and a camera to watch them, so I could definitely see her getting too comfortable and trying to pet one, or something.

I push off the wall and walk toward her, lowering myself to her eye level. “What are you talking about? When did you get bitten?”

My brain instantly kicks back on as concern begins to set in. Symptoms of rabies don’t usually manifest for weeks to months after a bite. But once they hit, it’s almost always fatal.

Morgan looks fine, though—maybe a little pale at this exact moment—but otherwise, she’s acting totally normal. If she starts the vaccine protocol today, she should likely be okay . . . I think.

She slowly turns her head. “Nothing bit me,” she replies quietly.

I don’t know if she’s purposely being coy, or if she’s genuinely sick, but something seems to have shifted in her demeanor. She almost looks worried.

“Okay . . .” I say, softening my tone. “So why do you think you have rabies?”

Morgan rolls her stormy-green eyes and points to her face.

“This.”

I study her, waiting for something to happen, but she simply blinks. “What?”

She lets out an exaggerated huff.

“I can’t stop drooling,” she answers, her lip quivering like she’s about to start crying. “I feel like my mouth is a waterfall of spit that I have to keep swallowing down, and I’m pretty sure that’s a symptom of rabies. Right? Which means I’m going to die.”

I knit my brows, trying to understand.

Technically, she’s not wrong—hypersalivation is a late-onset symptom of rabies. But she would also have a fever, neurological complications, and a whole host of other issues along with it.

“So you’re just salivating more than normal?”

There are a ton of very normal reasons that would cause her to feel like she’s drooling more—infection, diet, allergies, pregnancy. Unless she’s experiencing any other serious symptoms, I’m not sure she should jump straight to death.

Morgan sits up, frustratedly pushing her fly-away hairs out of her face.

“I mean, that’s the thing annoying me the mosttoday. But my stomach also kind of hurts, and I’m literally so exhausted. I didn’t even want to have sex with Walker this morning before he went to work, so that’s how Idefinitelyknow that I’m dying.”

Her lips tilt to the ground, and she winces. “Ugh, and now I want to cry. Fuck.”

I fight a grin as the diagnosis hits me. “Morg . . . when was your last period?”

Her angry glare might make me rethink my amusement if she wasn’t on the verge of a mental breakdown because she thinks she has rabies. Instead, it just makes me snicker.

“I’m not pregnant, dimwit,” she sneers, pinching her nose in frustration. “Don’t you think I already thought of that? It’s impossible.”

“Humor me.” I chuckle as I join her on the couch, pulling my knees up to my chest. “Why do you think it’s impossible?”

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