Page 6 of Animal Tamer
She doesn't flinch. Just pulls out a stethoscope tip and warms it between her palms. “I'm asking how a primate from a busted exotic operation ended up in a traveling show.”
“Because the alternative was a county shelter that euthanizes anything they can't place in seventy-two hours.”
“There are sanctuaries?—”
“That were full,” I interrupt. “I called.”
A pause. Her hands keep moving, but her eyes are on me. “You called sanctuaries.”
“I called eleven of them. Two said they'd take him if I could wait six months. The rest had nothing. So he came here, and he lives in a heated trailer with two other capuchins he gets along with, and he eats better than I do.”I shift Peanut against me. “If you'd like to inspect the records, my brother keeps them digital. He can email you the file before you finish examining the patient.”
A muscle moves in her jaw. She doesn't answer. Just rises from her crouch and steps closer.
Too close.
She reaches for Peanut, and her forearm brushes mine, and I jerk back like she shocked me.
Peanut squeaks. Pip chatters above us. Wren's hand stops mid-air, her eyes going wide, and then color floods her cheeks all the way to her hairline.
She steps back, quickly. Her shoulders draw in.
“Sorry. I'm sorry, I should have?—”
“It's not you.”
“It's fine, I?—”
“It's notyou,” I say again, more forcefully.
She blinks, and her hand goes to the hem of her jacket, tugging it down over her wide hips, and that’s when I realize what she's doing. What she thinks is happening.
Christ. She thinks I’m disgusted by her.
“Doc—Wren.” Her name comes out rougher than I planned. “It's not you. I don't—” I exhale through my nose. “I don't do well with being touched. By anyone. It's not personal.”
The blush doesn't leave her face, but she nods once. “Okay.”
“Okay,” I echo.
“Can I—” she gestures to Peanut. “I need to listen to his chest. If you can hold him still for me, I won't have to come closer than this.”
“Yeah.”
I cradle Peanut and turn so his side is to her. Wren moves with care now, every motion telegraphed. She slidesthe stethoscope between his arm and his ribs, and Peanut goes still against me, his little fingers loosening their grip on my cuff.
She listens. Her brow furrows, then it smooths.
“Heart rate's elevated but steady. Good lung sounds.” Her voice has gentled. “Let me see the hand.”
I turn Peanut a fraction more. She takes a penlight out of her pocket and clicks it on, and I watch her work. The way her fingers settle around his small wrist without squeezing. The way she talks to him under her breath in a register so different from the one she used on me that it's almost a different language. Calling him a good boy. Saying he’s alright and she’ll take care of him.
Something in my sternum cracks.
I look at her hands: the short, clean nails, the faint scar across one knuckle. The way her thumb strokes the fur over Peanut's wrist while she palpates the bone.
She loves her work. The animals. She walked in here ready to find something to hate, and she's still doing the job with a softness I've never really experienced before. Not from anyone working at the carnival.
I wasn't ready for it.
