Page 97 of The Dog in the Alley

“Taavi, this is a big, scary deal. Surgery is a big deal. If you don’t want to do it, then we won’t. Okay?”

A soft, whiney chuff.

“Do you want Dr. Zhou to take this out?”

The next chuff was emphatic.

I ran my fingers over his face and ears. “Okay, bud.” My heart pounding in the back of my throat. I looked up at Zhou. “That’s a yes.”

Zhou nodded once, the movement sharp. “For now, go home. We’ll schedule the surgery in a few days.”

Taavi whined again.

“I know, bud. But it’s only a couple days. You’ll be okay.” I didn’t know that, of course, but I had to say it, and not just for Taavi’s sake.

21

For the record,I am normally fairly rational. Yes, I swear a lot. Yes, I get irritated quickly, and then I swear some more. But that’s how I deal with shit. I swear a lot, I glare at people, and I’m good. And yeah, okay, sometimes shit gets a little rocky at like three in the morning, but I get over it.

I do not freak out.

I didn’t freak out when I got shoved into a crowd of rioting anti-Arcanid MFM motherfuckers, and I didn’t freak out when a uniformed cop pulled a gun in my car. Sure, I might have had a little emotional melt-down later, but I didn’t freak out.

I was absolutely freaking out during Taavi’s surgery, and freaking out more because I was freaking out and, as I said, I don’t freak out.

About five minutes after Zhou and the nice orderly whose name I didn’t remember took Taavi back and told me it would be at least three hours, the receptionist, whose name was Kyle, told me I could go home or run errands, and they’d call me when it was over.

That really wasn’t going to happen.

I also didn’t particularly want to scar poor Kyle or make any of the other patients and their owners upset by being a complete mess in the waiting room. So I went outside and got into my car.

But driving with my hands shaking uncontrollably seemed to be a bad idea.

So I texted Doc—although it took me about ten minutes to get the words so that they formed an actual English sentence—and asked if he had any advice.

He had a dog.

And a husband who was prone to ending up in the hospital.

Doc’s response was to tell me to walk in circles around the parking lot to burn off the adrenaline. Which is what I was doing when his dark grey Tacoma pulled in because on a bad day Doc is still a fucking saint.

He got out and watched me pace for a few minutes, then leaned back into the truck. By the time I’d turned around again he was walking toward me, holding a steaming mug in each gloved hand.

I stopped, staring.

“Hot cocoa,” he answered without me having to ask the question. “Ward claims it’s the cure-all for any upset.”

I was rather dubious that hot chocolate was going to solve my problems, but it was hot and my fingers—even through my gloves—were starting to go numb in the late February air. “Thanks.” I sipped it, tasting both chocolate and the extra creamy sweetness that was marshmallow. It did make me feel a little better. Not much, mind you, but it’s hard to be as anxious when you’re sipping winter childhood out of a cup.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Doc asked.

“Fuck no.”

“Do you want to talk about a case, instead?”

“With the cases I’ve got, not really, no.”

“Do you want me to distract you by rambling on about something you don’t actually care about?”

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