Page 2 of Knot the Stray

“Just Jessie is fine. Good to meet you.”

Mr. Miller looks past my shoulder, staring at the side windows of the van. The golden retriever presses his wet, filthy nose flat against the tinted glass, smearing mud across the pane. The dog’s tail thumps a frantic rhythm against the interior panel.

A booming laugh erupts from Mr. Miller’s chest.

“I see you picked up a patient. Looks like he found every mud puddle between here and the county line.”

I let out a sigh, running a hand through my hair.

“He played chicken with my bumper a mile back. He lacks a collar, so I need to get him inside and scan him for a microchip. The clinic has a working scanner, right?”

“It does. Let’s get you inside. I can show you around the ground floor, take you upstairs to the apartment, and let you get settled.”

Mr. Miller turns, sliding a heavy key into the deadbolt of the sturdy metal door. The lock clicks open with a solid thud.

I pull the sliding side door of the van open, grab a fistful of the muddy dog’s scruff, and guide his heavy ass down to the gravel before he can bolt into the front cab. I haul him up the concrete steps and through the threshold, following Mr. Miller into the building. The air inside hits me like a brick. It smells like a textbook vet clinic. It carries a distinct, lingering mix of industrial bleach, rubbing alcohol, and the faint, gross undertone of anal gland secretions baked into the drywall.

I walk through the back hallway, checking out the polished linoleum floors and the sturdy stainless steel exam tables. The treatment area looks stocked and organized. I spot a row of heavy-duty chain-link holding kennels along the far wall. I guide the excited retriever into the largest bottom kennel, shoving him inside, and slide the heavy metal latch closed. I grab a metal bowl from the drying rack next to the deep utility sink, fill it with cold water, and place it in the run’s corner.

Mr. Miller leans against the doorframe of the kennel room, watching me.

“The place is a bit quiet right now. Dr. Henderson ran a tight ship before he passed, but things have been in limbo since.”

I rip a paper towel from the wall dispenser and dry the dog slobber off my hands.

“Is there any other staff working here? A receptionist or a vet tech I should expect to show up tomorrow morning?”

Mr. Miller rubs the back of his neck. A sheepish flush creeps up his wrinkled skin. He stares at the floor, avoiding eye contact.

“Well, see, we used to have two vet techs. But they both moved out of town a few months ago for different opportunities when the old doc got sick. The town board is working hard on getting the clinic staffed again. But for the moment... you’re on your own. You’ll need to handle scheduling the appointments, taking the phone calls, and managing the paperwork.”

I crush the damp paper towel in my fist. I just became the doctor, the nurse, the janitor, and the front desk clerk all at once. Running a solo practice requires a ridiculous amount of energy. I will spend my days wrestling angry cats, drawing blood samples, and my evenings buried under billing codes and inventory logs. It’s annoying, but I thrive on the chaos. It keeps my mind occupied and keeps me too exhausted to dwell on my own shit.

I nod, keeping my face neutral. “Got it. I can handle it.”

Mr. Miller lets out a heavy breath. He gestures toward the front reception area.

“Let me find that scanner for you, and then I’ll show you the living quarters.”

I follow him to the front desk. Mr. Miller rummages through a messy drawer, pulling out a white universal microchip scanner and setting it on the laminate counter. He grabs his heavy ring of keys and points a knobby finger toward a narrow wooden door near the staff breakroom. He pushes the door open and gestures for me to follow.

The steep wooden stairs creak under our boots as we climb to the second floor. Mr. Miller pushes open the door at the top of the landing.

The apartment smells a bit dusty, but it offers a ton of space. Sunlight filters through the large windows, illuminating a decent-sized living area with faded floral wallpaper and a compact kitchen featuring retro checkered linoleum. A small couch sits in the center of the room. It feels like a vintage time capsule from the seventies.

I cross my arms over my chest and scan the empty room. A morbid thought pushes its way into my brain. “Did Dr. Henderson die up here?”

Mr. Miller lets out another booming laugh, waving his calloused hand in the air.

“No, no. Don’t worry about ghosts. The old doc had a nice big house on the edge of town. He passed away in his own bed. This apartment just comes with the building. We kept it around in case a vet tech needed a place to crash, but it sits empty most of the year. It’s all yours.”

He drops a spare brass key on the laminate kitchen counter.

“I’ll let you get your things and sort out that stray dog downstairs. Give me a call if the plumbing acts up.”

Mr. Miller offers an awkward wave and heads back down the creaky stairs. A minute later, the bell above the front door chimes.

I stand alone in the dead-quiet apartment. I take a deep breath of the stale air, turn around, and head back downstairs to track down the muddy monster’s owner.