Chapter 1
Milly’s Meltdown
Milly
The lock sticks. Of course it does. My keyring rattles like I’m trying to summon spirits instead of opening the Hills Burrow Veterinary Clinic, and my coffee nearly baptizes my shirt in the process. The mug wobbles dangerously in my grip, the words—I Speak Fluent Woof, Meow, and Panic—so faded they’re more like a private inside joke than actual text.
The door finally clicks open, and the familiar cocktail of antiseptic and animal dander rushes out to greet me. Add in my stress-sweat, and it’s basically Eau de Meltdown.
Inside, the clinic looks deceptively serene in the soft morning light. I flip on the lights and immediately catch Gerald, our resident goldfish, giving me the stink-eye from the reception desk. His little castle has tipped on its side like a medieval ruin, gravel scattered across the glass floor.
“Rough night?” I lean close and tap the tank while Gerald swishes past like a disapproving landlord. “I don’t remember approving urban renewal.”
The waiting room glows in its staged perfection—coordinated leather chairs, glassy windows, sterile marble counters. A professional cleaning service keeps it sparkling, butthe vibe? Lesscozy small-town clinic, morebank lobby that happens to vaccinate cats.
I set my coffee on the desk, watching the steam curl like it’s trying to escape before the day begins. My planner flops open, and the explosion of sticky notes stares back at me. Last night, color-coding everything at midnight felt brilliant; this morning, it’s somewhere between inspired and unhinged.
Yellow means surgeries. Blue is medication inventory. Red… red is for “things that absolutely cannot explode in my face today.” Which, unfortunately, iseverything.
I tug a basket of sample vials closer, already half-rehearsing how I’ll streamline today’s schedule, and realize I’ve sorted them by client and not by date. Not wrong, exactly—just not practical unless the CDC suddenly needs me to file byaesthetic.
“Morning crisis management,” I mutter, straightening the vials into neater rows. Organized chaos, emphasis onorganized.
The bell above the front door chimes, and Mrs. Johnson bustles in like she’s half a heartbeat from panicking. She’s clutching Pumpernickel’s carrier to her chest.
“Milly!” she gasps, gray hair springing loose from her bun as though she’s fought a battle just getting here. She sets the carrier down on the reception desk with a thunk that makes Gerald dart for cover. “I know we’re early, but Pumpernickel’s making that sound again—you know the one.”
From inside the carrier comes a chorus of huffs and chuffs, like a miniature steam engine. Every few seconds, there’s a sharp puff. Normal sound for an overdramatic hedgehog.
I grab my stethoscope, coffee already forgotten. “Exam Room Two,” I say, pushing the door open with my hip. “Let’s get him checked in.”
Mrs. Johnson scurries after me, eyes wide with grandmotherly panic. “It started after breakfast. Or maybeduring? Anyway, Martha said chamomile tea works wonders on nerves, so I?—”
I stop mid-stride and swivel to face her. “Please don’t tell me you gave him chamomile tea.”
Her guilty flush says everything.
“Mrs. Johnson…” I sigh, lifting Pumpernickel gently from his carrier. He immediately balls up, quills bristling, the hedgehog equivalent of crossing his arms and muttering under his breath. “He weighs less than your handbag. A thimble of tea to him is like a gallon to us.”
“But he seemed so anxious,” she whispers.
“Because he lives with you.” The words slip out before I can stop them, though I soften it with a smile. “Let’s check him over. And just be clear, hedgehogs are natural drama queens. They make chuff when they’re happy, sad, or angry. It’s the way they are.”
Twenty minutes later, Pumpernickel has been declared in full, dramatic health—hydrated, caffeinated, and perfectly capable of living to complain another day. Mrs. Johnson leaves armed with hedgehog dietary guidelines, hedgehog anxiety tips, and enough printed handouts to wallpaper her kitchen.
I reorganize the exam tray with quick, practiced motions. The job isn’t glamorous, but when a hedgehog who puffs like a steam engine survives a brush with herbal tea, you take the win.
“Millicent.”
Dr. Nancy’s voice cuts through the corridor, flat and bored. She’s standing at the end of the hall, clipboard hugged to her chest, white coat unbuttoned over scrubs, and her running shoes squeak faintly against the polished floor as she shifts her weight.
My stomach does a little swoop. Nothing good ever starts with my full name.
I wipe down the last of the counter in Exam Room Two and join her, rolling my shoulders back as if maybe that’ll disguise the fact that my pulse is tap-dancing.
She pivots, already walking toward her office. “We need to talk.”
Her office is glass-walled, sterile as a specimen slide. She sits, motioning for me to take the chair opposite. I sink into it, suddenly aware of how heavy my coffee mug feels in my hand.
