Page 6 of The One Who Never Left: Colter

Colter: There is no melon comment

Eli: Liar

Colter: Going to bed. Some of us have goats to fix tomorrow

Boone: Night, Dream Girl's number one fan

Eli: Dream Girl

Colter: Kindly Fuck Off. Both of you

CHAPTER 3

Colter Callahan prided himself on grace under pressure, but even he had limits, and most of them involved livestock with ego issues. Unfortunately, it was Monday, and Mondays in Bridlewood had a nasty habit of turning ordinary days into stories he never wanted to explain.

“Colter, brace yourself,” Irma, his receptionist, said. “Exam room three is Mrs. Dobbins and her fainting goat.”

“She was just here Wednesday.”

“Don’t I know it,” she said.

Irma ran the front office the way some people ran entire towns, which made sense, considering she’d lived in this one her entire life and knew everyone’s business whether they wanted her to or not.

She was in her early sixties, quick-witted, sharp-eyed, and spoke with a no-nonsense Midwestern cadence that could make “hon” sound like both a blessing and a warning.

She dressed like she’d stepped out of the movie Annie Get Your Gun—crisp button-downs tucked into high-waisted trousers, a tooled leather belt, sturdy boots, and the occasional neck scarf knotted with intention. Nothing about her was accidental. She typed fast, judged faster, and had an uncanny ability to cut through bullshit with one carefully practiced look and a dry remark that bordered somewhere between kindness and command.

If Colter was the heart of the clinic, Irma was the spine. The spine that occasionally threatened to walk out and leave the heart to fend for itself.

“Wants its horns sharpened,” Irma went on. “Says he loses confidence if they’re dull.”

Colter had been a veterinarian long enough to recognize the signs of a chaotic morning, and Irma’s tone carried that specific brand of cheer that usually meant she was about to ruin his week.

He looked over the counter at a stack of waiting files. “What else?”

“Room five. Mr. Hargrove with a male iguana. Wants it neutered.”

“He wants me to neuter his iguana? And the goat wants sharpened horns?”

“Yes, and yes. And don’t look at me like this is normal. You’re the vet, this is your clinic now, which means it’s your problem.”

He raked a hand through his hair and stared at the patient list like maybe it would rearrange itself into dogs and cats instead of weaponized reptiles and insecure goats.

“I love animals, but these people are trying to kill me before I even touch the scalpel.”

Irma snapped her fingers, sharp as a whip. “You worry too much. Rule Number One: vet the animals. Rule number two: survive the owners. Now go before the iguana starts molting.”

Rule Number Three, unofficial and unspoken: never ask Irma to clarify Rule Number One or Two. She'd already moved on to the next crisis.

Colter rubbed his temples as he grabbed both files. Up first? Carl the Iguana.

He walked into the room and blinked at the four-foot-long male iguana wearing a camo-colored harness and leash was draped across the exam table. The creature’s yellow eyes blinked slowly, full of reptilian contempt.

Mr. Hargrove stood up and gave a tip of his cowboy hat. Earnest as a preacher, he announced, “I want him neutered. He’s been aggressive. Mating season, you know?”

A reptile with seasonal testosterone issues. Colter nodded slowly, waiting for the punchline.

“But I still need him to look tough,” the man added. “He sits on my porch and keeps the porch pirates away.”