“Don't.” He points a finger at me. “Don'tyou stand in my reception area and correct me, Wren. I sent you because I assumed you would handle it efficiently. One visit. Sedate, examine, charge enough to make it worth the gas, leave. Not adopt the entire damn carnival.”
“I'm not adopting?—”
“Five visits.”
“Sir—”
“Five.” He laughs, but there's no humor in it. The sound is ugly. “Do you have any idea what your billable hour is worth to this practice on a Tuesday morning? Do you know how many calves I've turned down this week because we're short-staffed?”
I don't answer, because there's no right answer.
“That monkey doesn't pay your salary,” Vance continues.
“Sir—”
“The cattle do. The horses do. The dogs and cats whose owners actually live in this county do. Not a—a—” He waves a hand toward the window like the fairgrounds are out there mocking him. “—a freak show that's going to be gone in two weeks and won't ever pay an invoice over thirty days.”
My eyes are starting to sting. I will myself to not cry.
“I'll bill them at the higher rate, sir. I told them I would. They didn't argue.”
“They didn't argue because they don't intend topay, Wren.”
“That's not?—”
His phone rings. He yanks it out of his pocket and looks at the screen.
“Goddamn it.” He's already walking toward the back. “A horse is foaling. Stilton's place. Of course it's now.” He jabs the screen, lifts it to his ear. “Bill, how's it looking?”
The back door slams. The little bell over it rattles once and goes still.
Paige moves first. She takes the mug out of my hand. Sets it on the counter. Puts both of her hands on my shoulders and turns me to face her like I'm one of our patients and she's checking my pupils.
“Hey.”
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.
“Hey. Wren. Look at me.”
I look at her.
“He's a miserable little man,” she says. Quietly. Furiously. “He's a miserable,miserablelittle man and his wife is leaving him and his practice is bleeding cash because he's too cheap to hire another vet and none of that is your fault. None of it. Do you hear me?”
I nod.
“You did the job. You did the jobright. A bone bruise on a primate's wrist gets followed up. Period. End of sentence. That isliterallythe standard of care for that animal, and if he wants to argue with the AVMA, he can go argue with the AVMA, not with you.”
“I shouldn't have—” My voice is a rasp. I clear it. “I shouldn't have corrected him.”
“You shouldn't havehadto.”
“I—”
Paige crouches in front of me. Her hands stay on my knees.
“Breathe.”
“I'm breathing.”