“See? Sworn statement.”
I shake my head, but the corner of my mouth pulls up anyway.
“And whatever she doesn't fix,” he continues, “we fix in a week.” I sober up again as my twin keeps talking. “Whatever she can't reach in you, brother… we'll cut it out of him. Burn it out. Every verse he ever carved into you, we take back in kind, and when there's nothing left of him but the confession, you'll be standing there whole enough to hear it.”
“Logan.”
“I'm not done.” His gray eyes, twins to mine, are shiningagain, but these aren't the same tears. “She gets the after. The good parts. The parts of you that are growing back. That's hers, and I'm glad, and I'll dance at whatever deranged wedding you two invent.” He lifts the pitchfork and drives it into the bale. “But the before is ours. And in a week, I'm going to stand in that trailer and watch you take it back, and then I'm going to help.”
The scream that lives under my skin is quiet. My hands are loose at my sides. Across the paddock, Brutus finally abandons his corner and shuffles toward the rail, deciding the show is over.
“Okay,” I say after a while.
“Okay.” Logan wipes his face one last time with his sleeve and grins at me, red-eyed and terrible and mine. “Now help me finish the hay before I end up doing all your chores for you.”
17
WREN
It's never this quiet in the practice. No phones. No barking from the kennel. No Paige narrating her lunch. Just me, the hum of the fluorescents, and the radio turned low on the counter, playing something twangy. I hum along, off-key, pulling supplies for this afternoon.
Today's the last official visit. Day five of five. Peanut's chart closes out, and I won't have an excuse to drive to the carnival during the day anymore. But it's not like I haven't been going there at night as well.
Last night I brought Paige to the show, and she spent two hours swiveling between performers like a lawn sprinkler—the knife guy, no wait, the strongman, oh my GOD the ringmaster—while I watched one man and one man only walk a lion around a ring like they shared a heartbeat. Afterward, Paige grabbed my arm and said, “Wren, that man looks at you like you invented oxygen,” and I floated home on a cloud of roses.
Nine days left.
But I'm not thinking about that right now. Right now, I'm counting syringes and humming and enjoying being the only human in the building for once.
The front door crashes open hard enough to slam against the wall.
I jump, a box of gauze skittering off the counter. Dr. Vance stands in the doorway, chest heaving, and my first thought isemergency—a downed horse, a dog hit on the highway—because that's the only reason anyone comes through the door like that.
Then his eyes find me, and I stop thinking like a vet.
There's something wrong with his face. His eyes are too wide and moving too fast, sweeping the reception area, the hallway, the empty chairs, like he's confirming something. Confirming we're alone. His shirt is untucked on one side. There's a gray shadow of stubble on his jaw, and his hands keep opening and closing at his sides.
Every hair on my body stands up at once.
“Dr. Vance?” My voice comes out smaller than I want. “Is everything?—”
“Where is everyone.” Not a question. His voice is flat and strange.
“Paige is off. Everyone else is at the Stilton place, the herd check—” I stop myself, because I'm answering the wrong thing. I'm telling him we're alone. “Did something happen?”
His mouth flattens into that line. The one that means today is about to get worse on principle. He steps inside and lets the door swing shut behind him.
“You went back out there.” He starts toward me. “The carnival. Yesterday. The day before. I checked the mileage log, Wren. The chart closed days ago, and you keepgoing.”
“The chart closes today, sir. The follow-up protocol?—”
“Don't quote protocol at me.” He rounds the end of the counter, and I back up a few steps without deciding to, and now I'm in a room with one exit, and he's in it. “You think I don't know what's out there? You think I don't know why a woman drives twelve miles for amonkeysix days running?”
“I'm doing my job?—”
“You're spreading your legs for carnival trash.”
The words hit me like a splash of cold water. My back hits the edge of the exam table.
