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  John glances up at Sam and Ty, who are standing in the corner of the room, both of them with their arms crossed over their muscular chests. They look like bouncers. “What’s going on in here tonight?” John asks, meaning, ‘What are two bodyguards doing standing over a three-legged border collie?’

  “This is Sam and Ty. They’re . . . my brothers.” It seems easier to say this than to go through the strange and confusing explanation as to why two rock ’n’ roll geniuses are standing in my clinic in the middle of the night.

  Neither of the guitarists bats an eyelash, but John stops his exam and stares at me. “Brothers? I didn’t know you had any brothers.”

  “They’re . . . new,” I say, feeling totally awkward. I point at our patient. “I think Banana has a broken right foreleg. I took X-rays, but you can feel the fracture.”

  “Let’s take a look.” John walks over to the light boxes that have the films hanging from them. After he’s done, he goes back to Banana and gently palpates his leg. “You’re exactly right.” John glances at me with pride in his eyes. He’s taught me so much over the years.

  “Is he going to need surgery?” My heartbeat picks up speed as I wait for his diagnosis.

  He sighs, frowning at the dog. “On any other canine, I would say no, just a splint could do it . . .”

  “But . . . ?” I prompt.

  “But because this is Banana, and because he only has three legs, I’m thinking otherwise.”

  I nod. “He’s special.”

  “Yes. Special is one way to put it. What are the chances you’ll be able to get him to rest for a few days if we don’t do the surgery? If we just put a splint on it and see how that goes first?”

  I look at him like he’s nuts. “None? You know better than anyone that I named him Banana for a reason.”

  “That’s what I thought. Let’s prep him for surgery. I’ve got one hour and that’s it.”

  I look at my newly minted brothers. “Could you just hang here for a minute while I get the operating suite ready?”

  Sam gives me a thumbs-up and Ty nods.

  I leave the room and go through the process of preparing for my baby’s surgery. As I get out equipment and supplies, I try to process what’s happening. I can’t believe how sick I feel, how panicked, how utterly hopeless. Banana was just fine a few hours ago. We were headed home for dinner and a good night’s sleep in a real bed, and then minutes later he was busted up on the side of the road. How did this happen?

  Everything was going well in my life up until tonight. Yes, we have a bunch of strangers living in our house who sometimes make me question things about my life; and yes, our mothers are so crazy-in-love and silly over them I don’t even recognize them or our lives together anymore; and yes, my two sisters have fallen in love with men who play in a band, who got them pregnant, who make their hearts sing and their lives full, even though they only met mere months ago; and yes, if things keep going the way they’re going, they’ll get married and have their babies together, and Emerald will have an adopted daughter, Sadie, too; and yes, I will still be alone, working eighteen-hour days in this clinic, trying to save as many animals as I can. But that’s all okay, because my sisters and moms are happy and I like my life. I don’t mind being alone for the most part . . . as long as being alone means I still have Banana with me. I don’t want to be here without him running around, barking like mad, and being my ridiculous assistant.

  Tears roll down my cheeks as I make sure the already sterile operating room table is sterilized again.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A tongue on my face tugs me from a dreamless sleep. Then the dog breath follows, hot and smelly. I lift my face off my arms and crack open an eye, peering at a slightly sedated but happy three-legged border collie who’s wearing a post-surgical cast on his right foreleg. I guess for now I should think of him as my two-legged pup. Poor thing.

  “Hey, Banana Muffin. How’re you feeling?” I stretch my arms above my head to work the kinks out of my back and then focus on checking my patient. His gums are pink, his eyes are mostly bright, and his tail is thumping on the floor. We slept together, him on a pad and me on sleeping bags in the lobby, the floor out here being the only space big enough for both of us and far enough away from the other patients that their sleep wouldn’t be disturbed. I couldn’t bear the idea of putting him in one of the kennels, even though I know they’re comfy and I do it with other animals all the time. I need to be closer to him than those boxes allow.

  I stand and look around. Ty is sleeping in one of the waiting room chairs, but otherwise, the clinic looks as it always does at—I check my watch—six in the morning.

  “Hi, Ty,” I say. “What’re you doing here?”

  He sits up immediately, startled out of his sleep. “What? Who?” He stares straight ahead, as if he’s hypnotized.

  I have to smile, seeing for a split second what caught Amber’s eye and heart all those months ago when she went off to Manhattan to meet the men who claim to be our fathers and tell them we weren’t interested in the inheritance money they were offering. Ty is pretty adorable with his hair sticking out all over the place and his rumpled clothes. “Over here.” I wave at him.

  He slumps down in his chair and runs his hands through his hair. Then he winces, swiveling his upper body left and then right. “Oh, shit. My back is killing me.”

  I stretch with a few bends and twists. “Serves you right. Why’d you sleep in the chair?”

  “Couldn’t leave my girlfriend’s sister out here by herself in the middle of the night, now, could I?”

  “I’ve done it plenty.” I can’t remember the last time I had a full week of sleep at home.

  “Yeah, but that was before you had a burglar.” He stands and stretches up to the ceiling and then bends over to touch the floor. He and my sister have been doing yoga together, and she’s been trying to convince me to do it, too. So far I’ve resisted, because I’ve been too busy, but I’m feeling pretty stiff myself. Maybe I should try a couple stretches. I reach up toward the ceiling, looking over at Ty to see if I’m doing it right.

  “Are you mocking me right now?” he asks, not looking at me.

  I glance at Ty between my arms. “No. I’m stretching. Ohhhmmm . . .” I try not to smile, I really do.

  “Sure you are.” He drops his yoga stance and sits back down in the chair, yawning and looking at his phone. Amber warned me he was feeling self-conscious about their exercise regimen, worried that somehow the press would find out about it and start running stories about how his relationship with a hippie chick was changing him. He’s sensitive about Amber being cast in a bad light by the public, and I appreciate his concerns for her well-being, especially now that she’s pregnant. I feel just a tiny bit bad that I ohhhmmm-ed at him.

  “When you were out there last night looking for the three-legged wonder . . . ,” I’m avoiding saying ‘Banana’ so my patient won’t get too excited and try to stand up, “did you see who broke in, by any chance? A car, maybe?”

  “Nope. I didn’t find anything but the dog.” He looks up at me. “And I walked past him about three times before I finally saw him. Sorry.”

  “It’s no big deal. The police are going to come out later today to write up a report. Hopefully, the thief’s fingerprints are in the system.” I’ve watched a few detective shows, and that’s the line they always use: ‘fingerprints in the system.’ It sounds so official.

  “Any chance you had one of those ‘find-me’ apps on your computer?” Ty asks.

  “Nope. I figured it was in the safest place it could be out here.”

  He hisses in disgust. “Nothing is safe anymore. Not even on a hippie commune in the middle of Maine.”

  It makes me sad to think that crime from the bigger cities is making its way out here to the farm. “It’s probably just some teenager from town. I’ll let everybody know at the next farmers’ market that I’m missing it, and maybe it’ll show up outside my door.” Just like the litters
of kittens and puppies that people dump here.

  The sound of a car stops our conversation. Ty stands and walks over to the door, looking through the window. “Cops.” He looks over his shoulder at me. “I’m going to head back to the house unless you need me.”

  “No, go ahead. I’ll be fine. Thanks for keeping us company.”

  “No problem.”

  Ty leaves, and I glance around the lobby, wishing I could clean up the mess left behind by the stolen laptop but resisting because I know the officer will want to see it. Voices come from outside, and then the door is pushed open. A cool burst of air follows, and I cross my arms over my chest, wishing I had my jacket on. Banana seems fine on his soft bedding with the heater blowing nearby. He doesn’t budge.

  “Hear you had a break-in last night,” the officer says after shutting the door. I recognize the man but cannot recall his name. I think I’ve seen him at the supermarket a few times.

  “Yes,” I say, walking over to shake his hand. “As far as I can tell, the only thing they stole was my laptop.” The odor of woodsmoke comes from his clothing, making me think I’ve pulled him away from a warm fire.

  “Is that where it was?” He points at the desk.

  “Yes.” I lead him over to it. “Do you want to dust for fingerprints?”

  A slight smile plays across his lips. “You want me to dust for fingerprints, huh?”

  He’s acting like I said something funny. “Isn’t that what you do?” I stare at his badge for emphasis.

  He shrugs. “Not really. It’s just a laptop. I doubt it was stolen by a criminal who already has his fingerprints in the system. It was probably just a teenager causing trouble.”

  Fingerprints in the system! Ha! I knew it!

  He and I are speaking the same language, but I find his blasé attitude more than a little annoying. “Oh, really? Just a teenager? Do you see some sort of evidence of that?” This guy is a police officer; shouldn’t he be taking this crime more seriously? My temper begins to rise.

  “It’s what we typically see.”

  I resist the urge to plant my hands on my hips, lacing my fingers at my waist instead so as to appear less threatening. “Have you had a rash of laptop thefts lately?”

  He gives me a funny look. “I don’t know that I’d say we’ve had a rash of them, but it’s not completely uncommon.”

  “Fine.” I guess I’m not getting my fingerprint dusting. So disappointing. “I suppose you can just take my statement, then.”

  He stands there, staring at the desk, moving his jaw back and forth as he rubs his chin. It looks like he’s going to tell me no.

  “Please tell me that you’re going to write up a report.” I almost laugh, thinking he’s playing some kind of joke on me by doing a great imitation of Rosco P. Coltrane from The Dukes of Hazzard.

  “Yeah. I suppose I could do a report.” He hooks his thumbs into his thick leather belt and rocks back and forth from heel to toe, heel to toe . . .

  Maybe I haven’t gotten enough sleep, but it sure seems like he doesn’t want to help me and that he’s trying to figure out how much he can get away with not doing. Apparently, I’ve been transported to another era, to a time when women weren’t taken seriously about anything. I open my mouth to say something about how my tax dollars have to be worth something in this town, but he cuts me off at the pass.

  “I’ll be right back.” He leaves the building abruptly, going out to his car. When he doesn’t come back in a couple minutes, I walk over and look out the window. He’s sitting in his vehicle talking on his cell phone.

  “What in the hell are you doing, Officer Whatever-Your-Name-Is?” I mumble to myself. Is he seriously sitting out there chatting away while I wait in here for him to do his damn job? How rude!

  I’m all set to get steamed up about it, but then I figure, what’s the point? I have to get to work, and it’s not like I’m going anywhere—I can wait all day. Besides . . . even if he does take my statement and fill out a report, I know very well he’s not going to follow up on it. He’s going to just dump it in his circular file as soon as he gets back to the station and never look at it again. I’ve done something to annoy him; either that or he’s the laziest officer of the law to ever wear a uniform. Or maybe he’s friends with Betty Beland. That would totally be my luck.

  I go to the telephone and dial the house number. “Hi, it’s me,” I say to the male voice who picks up the phone. I have no idea who it is, and I don’t really care.

  “Hey, Sugar Pop. It’s Mooch. What do you need?”

  The kind voice of the gray-haired, barrel-chested drummer of Red Hot and the term of endearment he uses threaten to soften me, but I resist the siren call. I’m going to need to stay mad to get stuff done around here today. “Anyone in the mood to bring me some breakfast? I’m starving and I never made it home last night.”

  “You got it. Just give us about twenty minutes to get it put together, and then we’ll drive it up to you.”

  It sounds like the moms and the band members are working in the kitchen together again; it seems to be their routine now to cook up a big breakfast for whomever is around before they head out to the gardens or groves to weed and harvest. “Perfect. See you then.” I hang up the phone and sit in the chair at the front desk, staring at the empty space that used to hold my laptop. I wasn’t exaggerating when I told Ty that I don’t have the money for a new one. I also wasn’t joking about not having the time or the expertise to deal with moving my backed-up data and software onto a new hard drive. I suddenly feel so overwhelmed, I don’t know what to do with myself, so I drop my face into my hands and cry.

  I don’t know how long I sit there like that, but someone clearing his throat pulls me out of my pity party. I lift my head to find the police officer staring at me.

  “You have anything to add to what you’ve already told me?” He shifts from his left foot to his right, making the leather belt holding all of his equipment creak with the movement.

  I shake my head, realizing my case isn’t that complicated: my laptop was stolen . . . period. No wonder he didn’t want to fill out a report. Can a report even qualify as a report if it only has one sentence on it?

  “No,” I say, feeling monumentally disappointed. “Other than I think they got in through the locked front door. Everything was fine when I left, but now it’s broken.”

  “Yeah, I noted that.” He puts a form down on my desk and points to it. “Could you just sign there on the X?”

  I stare at the form in front of me. It has the name of my business, the address, and a single line: Front door break-in, laptop stolen. I cannot for the life of me keep from commenting on it. “It’s so great to see my tax dollars at work.” I pick up a pen and sign on the dotted line and hand the paper back. I can’t even look at his face.

  “You have a nice day, now,” he says as he walks away. There’s a smile in his voice.

  I guess it’s supposed to be some sort of twisted joke for him to tell me to have a nice day after he basically tells me to screw off . . . simply because I asked him to do his job. Why couldn’t he dust for fingerprints? Does the dust cost too much to waste on a nonprofit clinic? Is it golden fingerprint dust? Ugh. What a jerk. I hate people sometimes. I don’t know why it has to be such a battle with some of them. It’s probably why I’ve dedicated myself to working with animals. They’re so much easier; they never lie, they never pretend to like you when they don’t, and they never intentionally or carelessly break your heart, which is more than I can say for most of the humans I’ve known.

  My mothers moved here twenty-six years ago, and they haven’t done anything wrong to anyone, but it still seems like some of the people living in the nearby town would like nothing more than for all of us to disappear. They’d probably love it if we all followed Amber down to New York City. No way would I ever do that, though. Manhattan is not my scene. And it’s not Emerald’s either. We’re here for good, and the people in town just need to live with it.

&nb
sp; Amber will head back to New York next month probably, but Em and I aren’t going anywhere. And now, since I have to buy a new laptop with money I don’t have to spare, I can forget hiring any help through the winter, so I’m really going to be doing everything on my own. I guess that’ll make some people in town happy, since they won’t see me. I’ll be too busy to go to the bar or the grocery store.

  I’m just grateful that the veterinarian who does the surgeries and makes up the treatment plans here gives me such a great deal on his services; otherwise, I don’t know what I’d do. I can’t stand to see the animals suffering, but unfortunately taking care of them isn’t free. The donations I get from people who are grateful for my work barely cover my expenses. Any income I have comes from the farm’s food production and sales at the farmers’ market that we attend every week, not from my work in the clinic.

  Rather than continuing to dwell on my problems, I decide to distract myself by cleaning. I do my best to keep my mind off Betty Beland’s vendetta against me and the police that don’t act like real police by straightening up the desk area. Then, I reorganize my medicine closet, verifying that nothing was taken in the process. Even bandages have to be accounted for because I run on a shoestring budget.

  As I put everything back into neat rows, my mind wanders to the person who came in here last night with the intent to do my business harm. If I were a criminal, I would go right for the narcotics, not the bandages. That’s where the real money in my budget goes, and that stuff is sellable on the black market. Not that I keep narcotics right here out front where anybody could see them, but still . . .

  I feel a little sick to my stomach over that thought and rush to the back room. I can’t believe neither I nor that sorry excuse for a police officer thought about the narcotics! What the hell is wrong with me? With him?

  The lock hasn’t been touched, thank goodness, but I open the cabinet anyway and verify that everything looks okay inside. Maybe the thief was going to take the drugs, but he ran out of time, thanks to Banana.