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“That’s different,” Dr. Morrison says, and his eyes are locked on the scalpel.

“It’s not different. Not really. Not in the ways that matter right now.” I take a breath. “So here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to help my friend. You’re going to numb him up, and you’re going to stitch that wound closed, and you’re going to do a good job of it. And if you don’t, I will cut your face off.”

The words hang in the air.

Dr. Morrison stares at me.

I stare back. Responsibly.

Behind me, I can feel Wraith watching, and I know without looking that he’s impressed. I can feel it in the quality of his attention, in the way the room has shifted.

“You’re serious,” Dr. Morrison says.

“Dead serious.” I adjust my grip on the scalpel. “I’m a very responsible person. I make excellent decisions. And right now, the right decision is to make sure my friend doesn’t die from that animal wound, because I’ve already had a really difficult morning and I don’t need the additional stress of watching someone bleed out in the back of a truck.”

“You’re insane.”

“Maybe.” I consider this. “Probably. But I’m insane with a scalpel, which means you should probably do what I’m asking.”

Dr. Morrison looks at me for a long moment. Then at the scalpel. Then back at me.

“Fine,” he says. “Put that down, and I’ll help him.”

“I’ll put it down when you’ve finished helping him.”

Another pause. Then Dr. Morrison sighs.

“Get him on the table,” he says. “Properly on the table. And for the love of god, put that thing down.”

I lower the scalpel. Just slightly. “Promise you’ll help him.”

“I promise.”

I set the scalpel on the counter and step aside. Dr. Morrison moves past me, shaking his head, muttering something under his breath that includes the words “career,” and “liability insurance” and “fucking Netflix.”

Wraith is already taking his shirt off, revealing the full extent of the wound and also his abs, which I notice in a distant, professional way because I am being responsible and focusing on the medical emergency.

Dr. Morrison washes his hands. Pulls on fresh gloves. Prepares a syringe with something that I assume is local anesthetic because I watch enough television to recognize the general shape of medical procedures.

“This is going to sting,” he says to Wraith.

“I’ve had worse,” Wraith says.

The injection goes in. Wraith doesn’t flinch. He just watches Dr. Morrison with those pale gray eyes, completely still, completely controlled.

Dr. Morrison waits a minute for the anesthetic to take effect, then cleans the wound. His movements are efficient, practiced, the movements of someone who has done this a thousand times, even if the patient is usually furrier.

I stand against the wall and watch. My heart is still pounding from the confrontation, from the threat, from the wild, reckless, responsible thing I just did.

I threatened a veterinarian with a scalpel.

I should feel bad about that.

I don’t feel bad about that.

I feel powerful.

“You did good,” Wraith says quietly, his eyes on me.