Page 9 of See You in Your Dreams

Yeah, right. With what time?I force a smile I don’t feel. “I’ll try.”

That seems good enough for Cat, and I hurriedly say my goodbyes before setting off for Dr. Jenkins’ office. I’m tense after that last conversation, so I focus on clearing my head. I don’t want Dr. Jenkins to fire me on my first day.

My traitorous thoughts end up back on Ash, which is hardly a safer subject. There’d been a few moments there where he’d seemed nice enough—snarky, sure, but in a way I’d found mostly endearing. Then, he’d just sort of shut down and shoved me away.

If I was smart, I’d take the obvious hint, follow my friends’ advice, and leave him alone. But I can’t deny there’s a part of me made only more determined to crack through his shell by his reluctance to let anyone in. To figure out what’s wrong so that I can help.

Let it go, Dylan. You’ve got enough problems of your own to solve.

I make it to Dr. Jenkins’ office two minutes early, greet the receptionist, and am ushered into the back. Thankfully, I’m only left to fidget by a counter lined with expensive-looking equipment for a minute or two before Dr. Jenkins appears.

Friendly but efficient, he immediately has me sign some confidentiality forms and puts me to work in a dim storeroom sifting through old patient files and manually entering their data into an ancient computer. The work probably would’ve been monotonous if I hadn’t been so excited to be there. Plus, the added perk of perusing pictures of adorable cats and dogs definitely helps.

A rap on the door snaps me out of my groove, and I glance up to find Dr. Jenkins smiling at me from behind his spectacles. “Dylan. Good to see you hard at work. How are those files coming?”

“Great, sir.” I shuffle some papers nervously before setting aside the folder I’d been compiling. My back pops as I take the opportunity to stretch. “I can see why you’ve been putting this off for so long.”

He chuckles. “Guilty as charged.” His eyes rove over the stacks upon stacks of unsorted files arrayed behind me. “Though by the look of things, we’ll be lucky if you finish before you graduate. We might need you to pick up a few extra nights here and there so you can keep up.”

I suppress a wince. I have no idea where I’ll find the time, but I’ll make it work…somehow. “Not a problem. I’d love to help.”

“Glad to hear it. I can’t wait to finally move out of the dark ages and into the digital era.” His expression grows more serious as he studies me. “You said during your interview that you hope to be a veterinarian yourself someday, right?”

“Yes, sir. It’s what I plan to study.”

“Well, if you want, I’d be happy to let you sit in on some of my less serious appointments. It’ll give you a chance to interact with the animals and get some hands-on experience.”

I break out into a wide grin. “That’d be awesome!”

“Great.” He claps his hands. “Well! I’ll leave you to it, then.”

The rest of my shift passes in a happy daze. I’m still riding the high when I get off at seven and make my way home in the fading light. While I’m not exactly thrilled for even more file duty, Dr. Jenkins taking me under his wing more than makes up for it. My dream of becoming a vet feels one step closer.

Of course, my good mood can’t last.

The instant I step inside our tiny home, the blaring whine of the fire alarm assaults my ears. Panic rips through me as I catch a whiff of smoke.

Patrick!

I almost trip over a pile of shoes by the door as I careen down the hall toward the kitchen, my heart racing a mile a minute. Oh God, I never should’ve left Patrick alone. If anything has happened to him…

I burst into the kitchen and stumble to a halt, my frazzled mind trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. A boiling pot of water sits on the stove, its overflowing contents splashing out of the pot and sizzling across the surface. Meanwhile, thick black smoke billows out of the open oven door while Patrick, wearing an apron two sizes too big for him, attempts to maneuver a burnt dish off the rack.

“What the actualfuck, Patrick!” I shout.

My little brother startles, almost dropping the dish. Right—yelling at someone handling something hot probably isn’t the best strategy.

Patrick hastily sets down the dish and holds up his hands. “Don’t worry. I wore oven mitts.”

I stare at him, torn between outraged anger and flabbergasted amusement. “Scooch over and give me those,” I finally snap, striding to the oven.

Patrick seems happy enough to comply, his relief palpable as I do my best to salvage his mess. Not that there’s much left to salvage. Whatever he’d been trying to bake is little more than ablackened char on the bottom of the dish, and it doesn’t look like he ever got around to adding the open package of spaghetti on the counter to the boiling water. Not that he could have without causing even more of a deluge after how much he’d overfilled the pot.

Once I have the situation relatively in hand—minus all the clean-up I’m going to have to do later—I whirl on Patrick, who at least has the good sense to appear abashed. “What the hell were you thinking, Pat?”

“That it would be nice for you to have a tasty meal waiting for you when you got home,” he replies, sounding hopeful.

I raise an eyebrow and look pointedly at the charred mess. “Tasty, huh?”