Page 59 of Josephine and Clay

I open my mouth to argue, then close it again because I’m still not right. It doesn’t matter how much I try to convince myself I am; I feel like shit.

I brush past him while pointedly ignoring my phone. “I have work to do.”

The morning continues with a border collie with a torn pad, a goat that refuses to be examined without screaming, and a routine vaccination that turns into a fifteen-minute negotiation with an owner who insists his cat “doesn’t believe in needles.”

I move through the rhythm of cleaning, assessing, treating, and documenting. There’s comfort in that. In the logic of it. In the way problems present themselves clearly and can be solved with the right combination of knowledge and action.

Unlike everything else.

It hits just after one.

I’m mid-sentence, explaining a course of antibiotics, when the nausea rolls in without warning. Stronger than before. Sharper. It twists low in my stomach and climbs quickly, bringing dizziness with it this time.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, stepping back from the table. “I just… excuse me…”

I don’t wait for a response. I turn, moving quickly toward the back room, one hand already bracing against the counter as I reach it.

The room feels too bright.

I grip the edge of the sink and focus on breathing slowly, but the sensation doesn’t pass. It builds instead, dragging my center of gravity with it until the floor feels unreliable beneath my feet.

“Jo.”

Dr. Harris again.

“I’m alright,” I say, quieter now.

“You’re not.”

“I just need a minute.”

“You’ve needed a minute for the last hour.”

I try to straighten, but the movement sends a sharper wave of dizziness through me. My hand slips slightly against the counter before I catch myself.

The edges of my vision narrow again, more sharply this time, the room pulling inward in a way that feels sudden and irreversible.

“Josephine—”

The word doesn’t quite reach me. The floor disappears first. I don’t hit anything—I think he catches me—but nothing feels quite real anymore.

“Okay,” he says. “That’s enough.”

“I’m fine,” I repeat, though the words feel less convincing even to me.

“You nearly went down.”

“I didn't.”

“You did,” he says simply. “We’re going to the hospital.”

“No need⁠—”

“You can argue with me later.”

I open my mouth to do exactly that, then the room tilts again.

“Fine,” I say quietly.