My phone buzzed in my scrub pocket, a short, sharp vibration that came twice in five seconds.
“He didn’t eat anything after midnight,” Mrs. Gable said, handing me the leash. “But he’s very nervous today.”
“We’ll take good care of him,” I said, guiding the dog toward the holding area in the back. “The technician will perform a pre-anesthetic blood panel first.”
The smell of rubbing alcohol and animal shampoo followed me down the narrow hallway. When I returned to the front desk, my phone buzzed again, sliding an inch across the laminate counter.
I picked it up and unlocked the screen.
Gage had sent four text messages in the span of twelve minutes.
The first one read: We need to settle the credit union paperwork today.
The second one followed immediately: I know you have the documents at your house.
The third text was shorter: Stop playing games with my family’s future, Lauren.
The fourth one arrived just as I was opening the clinic schedule: I am at the office until one.
I deleted my half-written response and put the phone back in my pocket.
