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“He’s been under a lot of pressure,” Jem said, slinging an arm around Tean. “Walrus fever.”
Missy laughed again, as though that made sense—as though any of it made sense—and Tean decided he was going to become a hermit. Nobody ever came and bothered hermits, and if they did, hermits were legally allowed to shoot at them with .22s until they left.
“Did you register already?” Missy asked. “The desk is over here.”
She led them past a sign that said WELCOME DELEGATES AND OVERSEAS VISITORS, with the message repeated in Spanish, French, and what Tean guessed was Chinese. Jem studied the sign, a tiny furrow between his eyebrows until he realized Tean was watching him. Then he frowned as though he had caught something in Tean’s expression.
“Nope,” Jem said as he urged Tean forward. Then, in a whisper, he added, “I know that look, Teancum Leon. You are not allowed to become a hermit.”
“I can do whatever I want.”
Jem actually snorted at that.
“Heather,” Missy said as they approached the registration desk at the far end of the lobby, “this is Dr. Leon, with the Utah Department of Wildlife Resources. And this is his…” She let the sentence trail.
“Troublemaker,” Jem said. “Jem Berger.”
Heather was an older woman, white, with a wattle of crepey skin. Her color was bad, and although it was hard to tell because she was sitting behind the table, she looked too thin, with only a hint of residual weight around her middle. She searched through the badges until she found Tean’s, and then she started putting together a welcome kit—a tote bag with a conference program, flyers from industry and academic journals, some sort of little spongy thing that was probably meant to be for stress.
“Do you know the environmental toll of printing waste—” Tean began.
Jem cleared his throat. When Tean shot him a look, he was innocently studying one of the plastic reindeer overhead, whistling “White Christmas.”
“I can connect you with your dog,” Heather said as she passed the bag over. She had a gravelly voice, and she coughed before continuing. “If that would help.”
Missy made no effort to hide rolling her eyes.
“Like, long distance?” Jem asked.
“No, thank you,” Tean said.
“How did you know we had a dog?” Jem asked.
“We’re fine, thanks.”
Heather smiled at them: yellow, crooked teeth. “I can sense him with you. A black dog. I get the feeling of bigness. Is he big? Does he have a big personality? His aura has melded with yours.” She frowned. “Did you lose him recently?”
Jem’s mouth opened in shock. “I did. How did you know that?”
“We didn’t lose him,” Tean said, taking Jem’s elbow and trying to pull him away. “You took him for a walk without a harness, and he got stuck in the McCoys’ fence.”
“He’s speaking to me right now,” Heather said, closing her eyes and touching her temples. “He misses you a great deal.”
Jem nodded at Tean with a grin, and Tean spotted the dog hair on his sleeve that had, against all odds, survived a full day of travel.
Brushing away the fur, Tean said, “If anything, he’s getting so many treats that he’s going to have diarrhea or bloat or pancreatic failure or diabetes by the time we get home. Maybe all of them.”
“Yes, well, if you’re worried about him—” Heather opened her eyes and fumbled for a card. “—I also perform remote healings.”
“No,” Tean said.
“I’m interested.” Jem snagged the card. “Very interested. Thank you so much.”
“Heather,” a woman snapped. “I told you: this is a professional organization, and there’s no place for that kind of nonsense here. If you’re going to bother the participants, I’ll have someone else staff the registration table.”
The speaker was a broad-shouldered, big-chested woman, her skin dark and lined from the sun, and she looked militant in a khaki shirt with epaulettes. The only thing missing, Tean decided, was a riding crop.
As she approached the table, Tean tugged Jem backward until they’d joined Missy. The woman planted herself in front of Heather. “What’s the status of my room?”
