The capuchin's small fingers grip the cuff of my henley, his pupils wide. There's a swelling on the back of his right hand, the skin already purpling where he caught it in the latch of the play structure inside the enclosure. Pip got spooked when one of the canvas hands dropped a tent pole nearby, and she swung off the rope at the same moment Peanut reached for the bar. His hand was where her foot landed.
A collision. Stupid. Not anyone's fault. Not even Pip's. But his little wrist took the brunt of it, and now he's tucked against me, breathing too fast, while Pip and Squeak flit through the rafters of the tent and chatter at each other like they're laying blame.
“Hey. Hey.” I look up at them. “Quiet.”
Squeak goes still. Pip dives to a lower beam, eyes huge, watching us.
“It's not your fault,” I tell her. She blinks once, then chitters and looks away.
Peanut whimpers when I shift my arm, and I tighten my hold. His fur is warm. His heart kicks against my forearm faster than it should.
The tent flap snaps back.
“Vet's here.”
Logan's voice. He ducks under the canvas, holding the flap open for whoever's behind him, and then she steps in, and I forget what I was about to say.
The first thing I notice is that she's pale. It makes me wonder what Logan said to her.
The second thing is that she's beautiful. Her dark hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail. There's a stethoscope on her chest, and a field kit at her hip. Both chest and hips are curvier than the Smoky Mountains. Her eyes are a warm brown and sweep the tent once, fast. Her mouth is set in a line that tells me she walked through that flap looking for neglect.
Something in my chest tightens.
“Rowe Holloway,” Logan says. “And this is Dr.—”
“Wren.” She steps forward, her eyes already on Peanut. “Just Wren is fine.”
“Peanut,” I say. “His name's Peanut.”
She crouches a few feet away, setting the kit down. “What happened?”
“It was an accident. Pip got startled, came down on his hand.”
Her eyes flick up to mine. “Pip.”
“The female capuchin. She's up there.” I tip my chin toward the rafters. “He's been with us about eight months. Came out of a Tennessee bust last fall.”
“Mm.”
That sound. I know that sound. It's the one people make when they're not arguing yet, but they're taking notes, keeping score.
She unzips the kit. “How long ago did the injury happen?”
“Thirty minutes. Maybe less.”
“And he's been held since?”
“He won't let anyone else touch him right now.”
Her eyes lift again, and this time they linger a beat longer. “That's a lot of trust for an animal that's been with you eight months.”
“He's a good monkey.”
“Mm,” she says again.
Logan makes a small sound near the door. I don't look at him. I keep my eyes on her, on the way her fingers move over the latches of her kit with the swiftness of someone who's done it a thousand times.
“You want to tell me what you're actually asking?” My voice comes out flatter than I mean it to.
