“I’ve reviewed your numbers from last quarter,” she begins, her voice smooth and cool. “And I can’t ignore a pattern any longer.”
Numbers. Always numbers.
“You’re consistently falling short of the daily quota,” she says, flipping her clipboard open. “Last week, you saw twelve patients a day on average. The rest of the staff averaged twenty.”
I grip the edge of my mug tighter. “Because I don’t herd them through like cattle. I take time to explain, to make sure owners understand what’s going on.”
Her expression doesn’t flicker. “It’s admirable that you connect with clients. But while you’re in the exam room walking Mrs. Johnson through a hedgehog’s emotional well-being, three other patients are waiting. Animals who need attention too. Families who get frustrated with the wait. Do you see the issue?”
I press my lips together. I do see it. I just don’t like it. No one was on the schedule while Mrs. Johnson was here. They were walk-ins.
“You’re thorough,” she concedes, “but thoroughness without efficiency is unsustainable in this business. We are a clinic, not a counseling center.” She closes the folder with a soft snap. “Which is why I think it’s time you found a position that suits your… style better.”
My throat tightens. “You’re firing me.”
“I’m giving you the opportunity to move on,” she says, folding her hands neatly on the desk. “Somewhere that appreciates your bedside manner. Somewhere less focused on numbers.”
Her tone makes it sound like a gift. It doesn’t feel like one.
I swallow hard and keep my expression passive. Feelings were for later. Later, when I wasn’t sitting in a glass office like a specimen on a slide.
Twenty-seven minutes later, I’m outside Hills Burrow Veterinary Clinic with a cardboard box that contains the total sum of my career: three coffee mugs, two battered reference guides, and a handful of succulents I’ve kept alive out of sheer stubbornness.
The sky can’t resist adding insult to injury. Drizzle slicks the Denver sidewalk, soaking into my flats and turning the box to pulp at the corners.
I balance it against my hip and mutter, “Congratulations, Milly. Fired before ten a.m. That’s a personal best.”
“Special delivery, Dr. Thomas!”
Michael Prince, the mail carrier, is making his usual rounds, whistling something byCreed. His mailbag bounces against his side as he waves a fat manila envelope in my direction.
I shift the box and take it, rain already smudging the corner. “Please tell me this is a job offer I can’t refuse.”
Michael chuckles, his breath puffing in the chilly air. “Better. It’s from Montana. A law firm called Browne, Browne, and Associates. Looks impressive.”
The envelope is thick. My name is scrawled across the front in elegant handwriting.
I duck under the overhang of the clinic’s entryway, wedge the box between my knees, and tear open the envelope. Inside, the letterhead confirms Michael’s words:Browne, Browne, and Associates, Attorneys at Law. Everwood, Montana.
My eyes skim the text.
Dear Dr.Thomas,
We regret to inform you of the passing of your aunt, Penelope “Penny” Thomas.
There had been no funeral to fly to. Penny had planned it like she did everything: tidy, private, and stubbornly on her own terms. So very Penny. The words tug hard at memory. Aunt Penny: purple-ink birthday cards, glitter explosions in the envelopes, chartreuse slippers at Thanksgiving. She once mailed me a cactus with a note that read,Resilience isn’tbeing unbreakable, Milly. It’s about being stubborn enough to grow anyway.
My throat tightens as I read on.
She has bequeathed to you her entire estate, including property located in Everwood, Montana, contingent upon your agreement to reside at said property for a minimum of one calendar year.
Michael leans casually on the mail cart, peering at the paperwork. “Montana, huh? I hear winters there either kill you or make you stronger. No middle ground.”
I huff a laugh, more nerves than humor. “Encouraging.”
The rain patters harder against the pavement as I tuck the papers back into the envelope. Denver traffic rushes by behind me, but suddenly, it feels a million miles away. Fired. Inherited property. Required to move to a place that, until five minutes ago, only existed in birthday-card memories.
I can still smell disinfectant under my nails, even out here in the rain. That was the thing about being a vet: it didn’t clock out when you did. It followed you home, sat on the edge of your bed, and asked if you’d remembered the geriatric lab’s meds. Being a vet wasn’t just a job. It was a lifestyle that left little time for yourself.
