Page 21 of Fat Arranged Mate
I jerk upright, disgusted with myself.
True sleep, when it finally comes, is fitful and unsatisfying. In my dreams, Sera's hand remains in mine, her fingers intertwined with a certainty that feels like inevitability—a sensation that follows me into waking, unwelcome and undeniable.
Chapter 7 - Sera
"Can you read this handwriting?" Nurse Becky holds up a prescription form, squinting at the doctor's scrawl. "Is that a seven or a one?"
I lean closer, grateful for the distraction from endless supply organization. "Looks like a seven to me."
"That's what I thought too." She sighs, adding it to her pile. "Dr. Matthews writes like he's having a seizure. You'll get used to it."
It's been a week since Dylan and I arrived in Pinecrest, and somehow, I've managed to secure a temporary position at the town's only medical clinic. A fortunate combination of a genuine nursing shortage and my legitimate medical background made infiltration almost suspiciously easy.
"You're a godsend, Sera," Becky continues, her round face flushed from running between exam rooms all morning. "Ever since Tanya left, we've been drowning. Can't believe you just showed up when we needed someone most."
I smile, keeping my hands busy with inventory. "Lucky timing, I guess. My husband's job brought us here, but I was hoping to find something in healthcare."
"Well, Dr. Sanders did a happy dance when he saw your resume. Even if it's just for a few months while you 'decide if Pinecrest is your forever home’." She mimics my careful phrasing from the interview, grinning. "Though between us, I hope you stay. You're catching on quick."
The guilt of deception sits heavy in my stomach. Becky is genuinely kind—the first person in Pinecrest who's treated me with unguarded warmth. She doesn't deserve to be manipulatedfor information. But neither do shifters deserve to be hunted with silver bullets.
I push the guilt aside, focusing on the mission. "I'm just glad to be useful. It's been a lonely week, not knowing anyone in town."
"Which reminds me!" Becky brightens, checking that we're alone in the supply closet. "The annual spring barbecue is this Saturday at Riverside Park. The whole town turns out—food, games, music. You and Dylan should definitely come."
"That sounds great," I say, injecting enthusiasm into my voice. The perfect reconnaissance opportunity, wrapped in a friendly invitation. "I'll tell him tonight."
"Wonderful! I'll introduce you to everyone." Her pager beeps, and she glances at it with a groan. "Ugh, room three again. Mrs. Hargrove's convinced her arthritis is terminal cancer this week."
As she hurries off, I continue methodically counting gauze pads and antiseptic wipes, creating a mental map of the clinic's inventory. Silver-based products are surprisingly prevalent—not unusual in some medical settings, but the quantity raises questions.
The door to the supply closet remains partially open, allowing snippets of conversation to drift in from the nurses' station across the hall. I maintain my counting rhythm while tuning my enhanced hearing toward the voices.
"—another one last night, up near Miller's Creek." A male voice, probably Jeff, the paramedic who had brought in a patient with a broken ankle earlier.
"Animal attack?" Female, likely Diane, the head nurse.
"That's what the report says. But Dave—you know, my buddy in Search and Rescue—he says the tracks were weird. Too big for normal wolves."
"They're getting bolder. Coming closer to town."
"The hunting group is organizing extra patrols. Sheriff's deputizing volunteers."
Their voices lower, and I shift slightly to better hear without appearing to eavesdrop.
"Between us," Jeff continues, barely above a whisper, "Blackridge says they found fur samples that aren't normal. Lab results came back... inconclusive."
"You don't think...?" Diane leaves the question unfinished, but her meaning hangs in the air.
"I'm keeping silver rounds in my truck. Just in case."
The conversation shifts to scheduling matters as someone else approaches. I resume my inventory, mind racing with implications. These aren't just random hunters; there's organized surveillance, scientific testing, official involvement. And the euphemisms—the careful avoidance of the word "shifter" while clearly discussing exactly that—suggests community-wide awareness beneath a veneer of plausible deniability.
This is worse than we thought.
Throughout the day, I catch more fragments of similar conversations. Patients discussing unusual animal sightings. Staff exchanging meaningful glances when wilderness safety is mentioned. No one says "werewolf" or "shifter" outright, but the subtext is unmistakable to someone who knows what to listen for.
By the time my shift ends at six, I'm exhausted from maintaining my friendly newcomer persona while constantly filtering for useful intelligence. The weight of pretense—being human, being harmless, being ignorant of the danger surrounding us—presses down like a physical burden.
