Page 17 of Spiced!

“Same time next week?” Adrian said, looking at me over the top of Mofongo’s head.

“Three weeks,” I said. “For his first vaccines.”

“Three weeks,” he said in the same way he’d said, “Okay,” earlier, like he was putting it somewhere specific. “Good.”

I walked them out to Marcus, who took one look at Mofongo and lost approximately forty percent of his professional composure, which for Marcus was seismic.

“Can I—” His hand was almost petting Mofongo’s ear, but he stopped and pulled back. “He’s very healthy looking.”

“His name is Mofongo,” Adrian said.

Marcus smiled. “That’s a good name.”

“Thank you,” Adrian said, like he’d been waiting for someone to say so. “My grandmother is going to love that someone agrees with her.”

Adrian settled his bill with Marcus, tucked Mofongo back against his chest, and looked at me once more from the doorway.

“Thanks, Doc,” he said.

“Brendan,” I said.

“Brendan,” he said, flashing another brilliant smile before stepping through the glass front door. Mofongo’s small face watched me from over his shoulder until they vanished into the parking lot.

Marcus and I stood at the front desk in silence for a moment.

“Thanks for staying late. See you tomorrow?”

“Same bat-time, same bat-channel,” Marcus said with a mock salute.

I walked back to my office and sat, mentally preparing to resume notating charts. Before I could even pick up my pen, Diane appeared in the doorway. She had her bag slung over her shoulder and her keys in her hand.

“Good night, Dr. Davis,” she said.

“Good night, Diane.”

“Go home sometime before midnight. You’re only young once.”

“Yes, Mom.”

She flicked me the bird and left.

God, I loved my team.

Puck was at the door before I had it open. He climbed onto my arm, settled on my shoulder, and dook’d with intent.

“Rough day,” I said, carrying him to the kitchen. “Good ending though.”

He made a quiet sound.

Gerald was on the windowsill in his correct spot. I checked his soil. He looked good, exactly as he always looked.

“There was a puppy,” I said to Puck. “It was eight weeks old, a beagle mix.” Puck chittered. “His name is Mofongo.”

Gerald said nothing, which was his standard position.

“The owner was—” I stopped.

Puck blinked at me.