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My stomach sinks, and I can only stare into the bag, not wanting another bite. Ensley’s family was seriously poor. All the kids struggled. But they were a friendly brood, and those of us who hung out with them were more than happy to bring over snacks, or leave behind a wayward baseball glove or football so they’d have more things around. It was an unspoken promise.
“I hear he’s doing all right.”
“He is,” Ensley chirps, seeming to have recovered now that she’s clothed and dry. “The supervisor is set to retire, and Garrett thinks he might move up.”
“That’s great.” I pass the bag to her.
She takes a chip. “I got promoted at my bank last summer. I’m assistant head teller.”
“Good for you.” It sounds surly, and I shift on the cot, uncomfortable with Ensley’s expectation that I will be all rah-rah over work stuff. I don’t do small talk.
She doesn’t seem to notice. “I was so glad Janet didn’t get the promotion. Everyone thought she would since she’s been there longer, but honestly, she’s such a pill that nobody wanted her to be in charge of anything.”
She doesn’t seem to expect me to speak on this topic, so I sip the bourbon while Ensley prattles on about her coworkers and the problems with the bank’s software interface.
If I’d been anyone else, I could have chimed in about how we’re always having trouble with the updates to our veterinary software as well, and how these specialized programs are a racket. And that I used to have a Janet on staff, too. I scared her off.
But I don’t. I never do. Even at work, I manage the animals, listen to them, let them show me what’s wrong in the privacy of the treatment space.
My techs manage the human conversations unless I’m specifically called out. It’s how I work best.
“Tell me about them,” Ensley says.
“About what?” I intend to avoid more discussion by eating Doritos, but we’ve cleaned out the bag.
“The animals you work on. I’ve always admired you being a veterinarian. You must really love critters.”
I grunt.
“Is that a yes? Can you say anything more, or has one of those cats taken off with your tongue?”
“It was torture.”
Ensley huffs. “It’s torture talking to me?”
“No, the phrase. It’s from torture.”
She thinks a second. “So ‘cat’s got your tongue’ is about torture?”
I nod. “Tongues were cut out and fed to cats.”
She holds up a hand. “Forget I said it. So do you have the urge to adopt every sad, bedraggled baby that comes into your clinic?”
“No.”
“No? Just no? Why not?”
“I’m never home.”
“Huh. A veterinarian who doesn’t own any animals.”
“I help them. I find them homes.”
“But never yours.” She stares up at the roof. “Still coming down.”
“Probably will through the reception.”
“Great.” She lies back on the cot, legs folded so she only takes up her half. “So tell me something about you I don’t know.”
