Page 47 of Josephine and Clay

JUNE 1ST

“Easy… easy, sweetheart…”

I crouch beside the examination table and half-whisper my words. The border collie in front of me trembles under my hands, ribs fluttering too fast beneath patchy fur, wide eyes darting between me and his owner like he’s trying to decide who to trust more.

“It’s alright,” I murmur, sliding my palm along his side in slow, even strokes. “I’ve got you.”

He doesn’t believe me.

That’s fine; most don’t at first.

“What did you say his name was again?” I ask, glancing up briefly.

“Ranger,” Mr. Collins replies, wringing his cap between his hands. “He’s never been like this before, doc. Not once.”

“I believe you.”

I do. The symptoms line up too cleanly for this to be normal behavior. Lethargy, loss of appetite, the shaking.

My fingers press gently along Ranger’s abdomen.

Focus on what’s in front of you.

That’s the rule. No distractions. No phone, or thinking about the way your sleep’s been off for the past week, and especially not the strange, restless energy sitting under your skin, waiting for what’s next.

Definitely not the memory of a man’s hands and the way your body still seems to remember them at inconvenient times.

“Has he eaten anything unusual?” I ask.

“No, ma’am. Same feed as always.”

I nod, filing that away, reaching for the stethoscope draped around my neck. I press the diaphragm to his chest…

It hits.

The nausea comes out of nowhere, sharp and sudden, like my body just tipped sideways without warning. My stomach twists violently, a cold, hollow drop that sends a wave of dizziness up the back of my neck.

I freeze.

No, not now.

I swallow, trying to calm myself, to breathe through it, but it only makes it worse. The room tilts slightly at the edges, the fluorescent lights overhead suddenly too bright, too harsh.

“Josephine?” Dr. Harris cuts in from somewhere behind me, distant but sharp with awareness.

“I’m fine,” I say automatically.

I press my lips together, forcing my focus back down to Ranger, to the rhythm of his heartbeat under the stethoscope. That’s what matters. Finish the exam. Keep moving.

You’re not the kind of person who falls apart mid-appointment.

Except my vision blurs.

I pull back too quickly, the movement making my head spin harder this time. My hand braces against the table without me meaning to, fingers gripping the edge.

“Josephine,” Dr. Harris says again, closer now. “Sit down.”

“I don’t need to⁠—”