The Unrecovered: Smiling Flu, #1

Acknowledgments

Many thanks to Slappy Jack, whose early encouragement gave me the fuel I needed to keep going. Without him, this book wouldn’t be here. Also, a big thank you to my sensitivity reader, Rob Peters, for ensuring I treated my Native American characters with the respect they deserve. A heap of thanks goes out to Devora Gray, my writing partner, friend, and confessor. Thanks for keeping me going Dev. And, of course, a giant truckload of thanks to my editor and life partner, Em Davis. Without them, this book wouldn’t be readable.

Author’s Note

If you’ve picked up this book, opened the cover, and read this far, you want to read horror. Good news! Horrible things happen on the following pages. I aim to scare you, not dig up the bones in your closet. The problem is, trigger warnings don’t work. A dozen scientific studies have shown that trigger warnings can actually increase the very feelings they are intended to prevent. So enjoy this book responsibly with my best wishes.

Len M. Ruth

Chapter 1   

August 21, Destination, Idaho

Jamie strained for a glimpse of the approaching fires in the dusty orange sky to the west. The forest on the other side of the cornfields wasn’t visible through the kitchen window, but she could smell fire on the breeze that rustled the curtains.

Ed’s footsteps creaked down the stairs.

She swept aside a few of the coupons littering the kitchen table, set her coffee down, and sat gazing at them with a mix of disdain and resignation.

Sky’s a funny color, she said as Ed shuffled past her.

Smoke from the fires, he mumbled.

She watched him take the Laetanol bottle down from atop the fridge and tap one into his calloused hand. He filled a red jelly glass from the tap, swallowed the pill, then stared out the window just as Jamie had moments before.

Do you think those are working? She clipped a coupon for cornflakes from the circular and laid it on the growing pile.

Do you?

I suppose, she paused, looking at his muscular arms and back silhouetted against the orange sky. You don’t seem as sad.

Yeah, he said, I don’t feel as sad.

So that’s it. You gonna do it? she asked, changing the subject. His depression was a rabbit hole she’d rather not go down this morning.

Yeah. Ed turned from the window and rested the small of his back on the counter. The harvester’s all fueled up.

It’s a lot of money to lose, she said, returning her attention to her coupons.

We talked about this. Ed sighed. I can still sell the early corn. We’ll lose about ten percent on that acreage. Better that than lose it all to the fire. Forest Service says it should create a good fire break. After I harvest, they’ll come in and burn the stalks. Ted is doing the same to his fields right now.

How long will you be?

Midnight, I figure. He picked up the thermos and lunch bag she’d prepared for him.

Jamie got up and stopped him at the door. I love you. She put her arms around his sunburned neck and felt the hard muscle of his shoulders under her slender fingers. She did love him. Didn’t she? Or was it the idea of him? The ghost of Ed, the one she’d married, was bright and full of promise. A young college student on the rise like herself. And she’d been swept away by their love like a solar wind. Swept years later to his parent’s farm in Destination, Idaho, clipping coupons and putting up with his drinking.

I love you too. He put his arms around her.

The lunch bag and thermos pressed against her back.

It’s going to be alright, Jamie. He kissed her.

Jamie accepted the kiss, tasting the familiar tang of vodka. She wondered as she kissed him back if he meant the crops, the farm, the fire, their marriage? There were so many things that were not all right.

Ew, came a small playful voice, can I go outside?

Jamie turned to see Aella standing in the doorway to the dining room.

As Aella ran the back of her hand across her nose, her fingers brushed the tips of long brown ringlets that framed her face and set them jiggling.

Go blow your nose. You’re twelve years old. You shouldn’t have to be told, Jamie said. You’re not getting sick, are you?

No, Aella said over her shoulder as she went off in search of a tissue.

Probably just all the smoke in the air, Ed said.

I hope that’s all. I don’t want her sick for the big trip tomorrow. Jamie rested her head on Ed’s chest and slipped her hands into the back pockets of his jeans. I wish I could go with her.

She’ll be in good hands, Ed said. She’s got who? Cheryl Thompson, plus three other chaperones from her troop. She sold a lot of cookies to get there. Can’t keep her home now.

I know. I just wish I could share the wonder with her. I always wanted to see the Smithsonian and the Lincoln Memorial.

I wish I could earn enough money so you didn’t have to wait tables. Take us on a real vacation. Speaking of money, I’ve got to get that harvester rolling before we lose everything.

OK, Jamie said. She kissed his cheek and watched him go down the steps and around the side of the house.

Can I go out now? Aella asked, tossing a tissue into the trash.

You sure you feel OK? Jamie asked, looking her over.

I’m sure. Aella gave her mother a sweet smile.

Jamie let out a breath. OK, as long as you are all packed.

Yup, all packed.

Stay around the yard. I don’t want you wandering off into the fields with that fire so close.

It won’t come here. Dad said. Isn’t that where he went? To harvest the fields on the edge of the woods?

Yes, yes. OK, go on, and don’t get your new sneakers muddy before the trip.

OK. Aella crossed the kitchen. The screen door made a graaanngg sound as she opened it.

And don’t let the— CLACK —screen door slam. Jamie shook her head and went back to her coupons.

Mom, the eclipse is happening! Aella’s voice floated in through the screen door a few minutes later.

Jamie went to the window. I totally forgot about it. Don’t stare at it.

"I know."

I’ll bring out those special glasses.

Jamie fetched the cardboard-framed plastic lenses and joined Aella in the yard. After making sure Aella put them on, Jamie put on her own and stared up at the cosmic spectacle.

Smoke wafted low out of the cornfields and swirled around them. It barely registered through their dark glasses, just a faint gray shadow, but from the corner of her eye, Jamie could see its faint pink color. The swirling vapor vanished as quickly as it came, leaving a chemical taste on her tongue. Strange smoke. What the hell burned to make that shit? She shrugged it off and turned her attention back to the eclipse. The moon slid perfectly across the sun, creating the fiery halo of totality.

Chapter 2   

August 21, Bethesda, Maryland, Beachwood Assisted Living Center

E njoying your dinner , Mister S? Carl asked from the doorway.

Dr. Anthony Silva looked up from the polished dinner service on the lustrous wooden tray. The beam of sunlight through the window gave his smile a sinister quality. Technically, it’s Doctor S., but I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore. He touched the knot of his tie to make sure it was straight.

Really, Mister S.? I’ve been taking care of you for almost three years now. Two years ago, you told me it was OK for me to drop the ‘doctor’ Still, we go through this absurd verbal dance every time.

Oh, Doctor Parks, I didn’t see that it was you. Where are my glasses?

You could see the TV just fine. As he entered the suite of rooms full of luminous wood furnishings, Carl wondered how much of his fortune Silva spent making these rooms look like the inside of an old English manor house.

Aren’t you afraid I’m going to tell the administration of this facility how disrespectful you are, and they will fire you?

What? And miss the pleasure of collecting your stool samples? You’d be doing me a favor.

This is exactly what I’m talking about. Silva looked over the tray in front of him. Care to join me, Carl?

What’s in it for me?

You can have my meds. Silva smiled.

No deal. Those are just placebos; everyone knows you hide the meds in your cheek and spit them out when we’re not looking. We’ve been mixing them into your food for months.

I don’t believe you. This is the best facility on the East Coast. Senators reside here. It’s not some cut-rate nursing home for indigents. They’re not mixing meds into my foie gras. Silva prodded his food suspiciously with a silver fork.

Suit yourself, and that’s chicken, not foie gras, Carl said, taking a seat on the bed. Are you going to eat your brownie?

How on Earth do you stay fit eating all my desserts, and presumably the desserts of the other residents? Silva held out the brownie.

Carl took it with a dark, delicate hand. Well, he began as he broke off a piece of brownie and popped it into his mouth, it used to be that between this job and working at the clinic, I was always on the go, but since I quit the clinic, I guess it’s just vigorous sex with my boyfriend keeping the unwanted pounds at bay. He swallowed and popped another chunk of brownie into his mouth.

I’m trying to eat here, Carl, don’t be vulgar. Is that your modus operandi? Put the old man off his dinner so you can pilfer my food? Silva cut his chicken into meticulous squares that were precisely the same size.

Actually, Mister S., I have something to tell you.

Silva stopped cutting and looked up at him. Oh?

Carl sighed. He had been dreading this conversation. Silva wasn’t like the other residents of Beachwood; he was sharp and a doctor, like Carl himself. I put in my two weeks’ notice today, he said. I’m starting at A. L. Memorial, at the trauma center.

Silva set his cutlery down on the tray. Well, he cleared his throat, Good for you. That is an excellent facility, excellent staff. I have no doubt you will do well.

I’ll come back to see you when I can. I consider you a friend, Mister S.

Don’t lie to an old man, Carl. It isn’t nice. You will be working long shifts, and in your off time, you are going to be fighting to maintain any relationships you have outside of the hospital. It was a long time ago, but I remember how hard it was.

I’m still coming to see you. Carl put the last of the brownie in his mouth.

You are a good man, Carl, but your naiveté concerns me. Silva ate his chicken in the awkward silence, occasionally flipping the channel on the muted TV.

When Carl sensed that the old man had nothing more to say, he rose to go. I’ll still be around for you to torment for a couple more weeks.

It’s not very English, you know, talking about one’s feelings, Silva said, but I will miss you, Carl. He paused, looking up at Carl. His eyes grew soft with emotion for a moment, then hardened. Now get the hell out. I’m trying to watch the bloody tele.

Carl smiled. He took a step toward the door, then turned back. You know, for a stodgy old bastard, you really are very sweet. He placed his brown hand over the older man’s white, liver-spotted one.

Silva looked up at him with an expression Carl had never seen on the old man’s face before. He looked sad and tired.

The sunlight waned a few degrees.

Silva set his fork down. In your life as a doctor, you will, from time to time, find yourself in a situation where you have to choose between the rules and your heart. Between helping patients or helping yourself. He held Carl’s eye. In those moments, stay as close to the rules as you can, but follow your heart. Don’t wind up like me, old and too full of worry and regret to die.

Why are you talking like this? Carl asked.

Because I wish someone had said that to me.

The light coming in through the window dimmed further.

OK, Carl said. He squeezed the old man’s hand and headed out the door. I’ll be back after my rounds, he said over his shoulder.

See if you can’t lay hands on another one of those brownies. That looked good, and I regret letting you talk me out of it, Silva called after him.

Minutes later, Carl was down the hall with another patient when he heard Silva’s voice.

I don’t need a goddamn nurse; I need an outside line. Now!

As Carl stepped into the hall, he saw Jody, one of the nurses, rush into Silva’s room.

Jody, I’m not senile. I just need an outside line! Silva shouted.

Why are you yelling like that? You are disturbing the other residents. Jody’s stern voice drifted down the hall.

I need to place a call. It’s a matter of life and death! Am I not speaking the Queen’s English?

Don’t worry, Doctor. Silva, everything will be alright. You are here at home in Beachwood. I’m just going to give you a little something to help you relax, Jody said.

Don’t patronize me, Jody, and don’t you come near me with that needle! I’m not losing my mind. I’m just trying to make a call!

Of course, Jody said. Just lower your voice and have a seat, then we’ll make a call. Jody’s voice was softer now.

I said it’s a matter of life and death! Are you listening to me, Jody?

Carl ran into the room. What’s going on here?

Carl, will you tell this patronizing -HEY! Silva jerked back too late. Jody used the distraction to jam the needle into Silva’s arm and push the plunger down.

Carl, Carl, will you tell Jod... Jo... Judas that I need to speak to... to... someone at the...

Carl rushed in and caught Silva just as he crumpled and, with Jody’s help, eased him onto the bed.

The sunlight grew faint.

Silva wasn’t giving up consciousness without a fight. He grabbed Carl’s arm and looked at him, wide-eyed, Carl, please, Carl... the call. Then Silva slumped back, eyes closed, mumbling.

Why did you dose him? Carl asked, his face tight and drawn, his nostrils wide enough to vent steam from a locomotive.

He was screaming, hysterical.

You didn’t even try to calm him down.

I did, actually, but he wasn’t lucid. He wasn’t rational.

Oh, bullshit. Carl looked down at Silva. Even with his eyes closed, the man looked worried. Carl thought about what Silva had said only a few minutes ago about being ‘too worried to die.’ Silva’s hands were still clenched. Livid brown spots stood out against the pallid skin.

Your friendship skews your judgment, she said.

The room grew darker still.

Yours is skewed because you have no compassion for these people. Why are you even working here?

Twenty bucks an hour plus an amazing benefits package, she said, picked up the needle, and left. Carl uncurled the old man’s fists. He went to one of the cabinets, withdrew a soft blanket, and covered Silva. The sunlight coming in through the window all but vanished, leaving the once warm wood tones of the room’s furnishings cold and dark. Anthony, he whispered after he pulled the blanket up. I don’t know what this is all about, but I’m going to help you.

The sun went out completely.

The Pentagon... Silva murmured.

Chapter 3   

August 21, Washington, DC, offices of The Washington Voice

Erica sat with her elbows on her dented metal behemoth of a desk, head in her hands. Auburn curls spilled out between her short, chubby fingers. A cacophony of ringing phones, conversations, and clicking keyboards surrounded her.

Mary Washington sat down at the desk, facing Erica. You missed the eclipse. A bunch of us went up on the roof to check it out.

Erica raised her head, gave Mary a withering look, then lowered it again. A cell phone buzzed and vibrated on her desk. She ignored it.

Bad meeting? Mary asked.

They are all bad meetings, Erica said, not looking up. Her cell phone buzzed again.

You gonna get that?

Does it look like I am?

So, what happened? More dog and pony stories? Mary asked sympathetically.

I got a piece on the flu.

That’s great! A real story!

No.

What? Why not?

Erica raised her head. Because I have been shoveling shit at this paper for five years doing, as you put it, ‘dog and pony stories,’ trying to prove that a woman can break into the boy’s club around here. And now that I got one, I need to call in a favor from a man, and not just any man, a man who might not even talk to me.

Mary leaned in closer, resting her elbows on the desk. Who? What man?

Tom.

"Your ex.?

Yes.

The one who left you for a job at the CDC? Mary asked.

Yes, that’s the one. God, how can you be a reporter and be so insensitive?

"How can you be a reporter with such thin skin?"

Erica’s landline rang.

You gonna get that? Mary asked.

Erica flashed her a chainsaw look.

Mary picked up the phone. Mary Washington, Washington Voice, Washington desk, Washington, DC.... Did you say, Karl Marx?... Okay then, I’ll see if she’s available. She stabbed the hold button. There’s some smart-ass named Carl Parks on the line for you, she said, balancing the handset on the tip of her outstretched index finger.

Thanks, Mary, Erica said, taking the receiver. She reached across to Mary’s desk and tapped the hold button with the end of her pen. Hi, Carl. Long time. How are you?

I’m well, Erica. How are you doing?

Slogging away at the boy’s club here, same as always. There was a pause while Erica waited for Carl to get to the point, but he didn’t. Is this a social call? I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got something I need to be working on. Maybe we can get together for a drink soon?

No, Erica, not a social call exactly, although I’d love to take you up on that drink.

What’s up, Carl?

I had something happen today, and I can’t really explain it on the phone, Carl paused again.

Erica waited. As a reporter, she had learned that the best way to get to the good stuff, sometimes, was to shut up and listen through the silences.

Um, I think it might be important. I can’t explain why. I think there might be a story in it for you.

Oh, reluctance, mystery, and a gut feeling? Color me intrigued. I can meet you for a drink at the 21st Amendment tonight, say, eleven o’clock?

OK, it’s a little late for me, though.

That’s the life of a reporter. The editor’s secretary put a small pile of papers on Erica’s desk. Erica smiled at her, waved a hand in thanks, then set the papers aside.

OK then. The thing I’m going to talk to you about involves a man named Doctor Anthony Silva, so anything you can find out about him might help shed some light on it.

OK, Carl, I’ll poke around a little. She wrote the name on a sticky note and added it to the collection on the bottom of her monitor. See you at eleven.

Thanks Erica, see you then.

Erica hung up the phone and let out a breath. The papers the editor’s secretary had just brought over were a bulletin from the CDC about this year’s flu season.

Who’s Karl Marx? Mary asked.

Um, communist, wrote a manifesto, Erica said without looking up.

"Your call, you know, meeting for drinks tonight?"

Oh, Carl. He’s a friend. Erica said, frowning at the memo.

A special frieeeeeeeend?

Try to get a grip on your hormones, Mary. He’s gay.

Someone has to be in touch with their hormones around here. You certainly aren’t. Have you even been on a date since Tom? That was what, two years ago?

If you want to make me feel like an emotional cripple, could we do that later? I have to jump on this flu story. Erica said.

What is it? What’s got you so engrossed?

"CDC press release. It’s dry as toast, normal for the CDC, I guess, but it suggests the sky might be about to fall. No, suggests isn’t right. It infers that the sky could fall. Listen to this: The H20N13 flu virus is both very mild and very contagious. The virus has a long incubation period and the ability to survive outside of a host body on some surfaces for up to two months. The virus is so mild that many infected may believe they have a common cold. Many of the infected will choose to continue normal activity. Given these factors, it is estimated that infection rates will be the highest on record. The CDC urges frequent hand washing, good hygiene, and fastidious housekeeping. Do not touch your face while out in public, and wash your hands immediately when you arrive home. The CDC also urges people feeling ill to stay at home and avoid contact with others. She looked at Mary. What do you make of that?"

Sounds like the bulletins we get from the CDC every year, except this flu doesn’t sound so bad, Mary said.

Yeah, but the high infection rate and urging people to stay home doesn’t seem to match up to a really mild virus.

You gonna call Tom?

Yeah, I’m going to need a drink first.

Don’t put it off, Erica. If your spider sense is tingling, make the call. Drink after. Besides, what are you going to get from him if you’re half in the bag?

Yeah, Erica said, I guess. The call went straight to voicemail. Erica left a message asking Tom to call about an important matter. While she waited for her phone to ring, Erica started looking into Dr. Anthony Silva.

The Twenty-First Amendment was not particularly dark, smoky, or loud, which made it one of Erica’s favorite places to meet people she wanted to lube with booze to get them talking. She scanned the oak and brass-adorned room and spotted Carl at a two-top table against the wall, drinking wine by himself. He rose as she approached, standing head and shoulders above Erica. As he hugged her, she felt her hair catch in his five o’clock shadow.

It’s so good to see you, she said into his chest. He was a little thinner than she remembered, which made her feel self-conscious about the extra twenty pounds she wore. She looked up into his smiling face, which, it had always seemed to her, must have been carved out of a perfect bar of Swiss chocolate. You look great!

So do you, Carl said, If I was straight, I’d—

Yeah, yeah, spare me, Carl. I look like gum on the sidewalk. I’m going to get a white zin. I’ll be right back.

Carl motioned to the glasses of wine on the table. I took the liberty.

You remember! She smiled. She really did miss him.

Do you know how many empty bottles of white zinfandel I had to lug to the curb when you stayed with Brian and me? How could I forget?

You make me sound like a lush.

If the shoe fits.... He grinned.

Shut up, Carl. I’m sorry I haven’t kept in touch. I don’t want to be the friend that only calls when they need something from you.

"I don’t think of you that way; besides, I called you. I need something from you this time, maybe. I guess I’m that friend.

What do you mean ‘maybe,’ she frowned.

I’ve been having second thoughts about involving you. It’s probably nothing.

Uh-uh, mister, I put a bunch of time in on this. I’ve got the start of a decent dossier on Silva already, so spill. There must be something to it for you to meet me in the middle of the night. Let’s have it.

Carl sighed, sipped his wine, and began. He told Erica about his relationship with Silva. So today when I told him I was quitting and going to work at the trauma center at Abraham Lincoln Memorial—

Hey, congratulations!

Thanks. Anyway, when I told Silva, he starts giving me this weird speech about following my heart in medicine more than the rules.

Sounds like good advice.

Yeah, but he ended it with this line about him being too old and full of regret to die. It was weird.

Okaaaay.

I know that doesn’t sound like anything, but then a few minutes later, he’s screaming hysterically for someone to ‘get him an outside line.’ You have to understand this is a very sharp, very sedate Englishman. Anyway, he’s so hysterical that a nurse came in and gave him a shot.

How is he?

He’s fine, probably still out cold from the sedative.

Then, right before he passed out, he said something about the Pentagon.

What was he doing when all this started?

Just watching TV.

And there was no one in there talking to him?

I don’t think so.

Then something on TV probably set him off.

That makes sense, Carl admitted.

Is he a Fox or CNN kind of guy?

He’s a doctor from England.

OK, Erica smiled, CNN then. Let’s see what CNN was showing today. Erica took out her phone. She poked and swiped at it for a minute. Okay, here’s what CNN has for top stories: there’s a push for legal pot in Texas—

Won’t pass, Carl said.

No shit. They have the CDC bulletin about the flu—

What CDC bulletin?

Later. Focus. Let’s see... healthcare is dead on The Hill again, wildfire threatening Fort Johnson, a dead sports star, and the eclipse... she trailed off.

What? The sports star?

Erica went digging through her shoulder bag and came out with a notepad. That fire thing might tie into something I found. Let’s see, there was a picture with Dr. Silva published in Stars and Stripes... she flipped pages. Yes, taken at Fort Johnson. The caption read, Dr. Silva works to help soldiers in Vietnam, Fort Johnson, Idaho. She looked at Carl. Got any idea what he did at Fort Johnson? He ever talks about it?"

No, not a word. Never heard of Fort Johnson.

The article attached to the picture ran in Stars and Stripes in ‘73. That’s the last year we were in Vietnam, isn’t it?

I’ve never been in Vietnam. Carl smiled.

Don’t be an ass, Carl, you know what I mean. She looked at her notepad. The article is no help, really. It just says he was working on a special project, but it does connect him with Fort Johnson, which is burning to the ground as we speak. Erica sipped her wine. So the question is: why did Silva flip out to the point where he had to be sedated when he saw the Fort Johnson story?

I have no idea, Carl said, then sipped his wine. What else did you find out about him?

I didn’t do an exhaustive background check, mind you. I just looked around for news stories. The only other thing I found was a story from 2002. The gist of it was that Silva was the leader of a team at World Drug that developed Laetanol, a revolutionary anti-depressant. She didn’t mention that she took Laetanol.

Do you think there is a connection?

I doubt it. They are thirty years apart, military versus civilian. She took a big swallow of wine. I think your instincts were right, Carl. I think there’s a story here. I need to talk to Silva.

I’ll talk to him as soon as I can. I’ll see if he is ready or willing to talk to you.

Tell him no one at the Pentagon is going to talk to a retired doctor that worked for them forty years ago. They’re just not. His best bet, and this is the truth, is to let me help him bring whatever it is to light.

I guess, Carl said, but he didn’t sound so sure.

Trust me. This is what I do for a living. You have my word that I’ll leave his name out of it if that’s what he wants.

Okay, Carl said, though his expression left the impression he wasn’t convinced.

Carl, she took his hand across the table, I’m not so ambitious that I would screw over a friend for a story, especially not you.

Okay, Erica, I’ll talk to him as soon as he’s up to it.

I’ll poke around a little more, see if I can find anything else.

Thank you, Erica. It really is good to see you.

Cheers, she said. They clinked wine glasses, then drained them.

Chapter 4   

August 22, Bitter Butte, Montana

Sarah Sampson grunted and pushed her lithe middle-aged body through another series of jumps, tumbles, kicks, and punches. She paused to towel her face, then grabbed a practice sword from its holder on the wall of her dining room turned dojo. She went through her routine, swinging the sword in controlled arcs. Sarah practiced alone. No one else in Bitter Butte practiced the art of Wushu, or what most people (especially denizens of Bitter Butte) called Kung Fu.

Sarah finished with the sword and toweled again. When the towel came away from her eyes, she noticed Laura leaning on the archway to her practice room.

Where’d you learn all that karate stuff? Laura asked, tucking her corn-colored hair behind her ear.

When did you come in? Sarah asked, annoyed at the intrusion.

Couple minutes ago.

Koontz! Dickens! At this command, Dickens, Sarah’s black lab, and Koontz, her German Shepherd watchdog, appeared in the archway next to Laura. You two are fired! Who else will you let come in without telling me? Fired! Now go on!

They went.

So, where’d you learn it? Laura asked.

Long story.

You always say that about everything. It looks cool. I’d like to try.

I used to go into Billings on the weekends. Sarah replaced the towel in its holder. A friend of a friend had a dojo there.

Oh, maybe you could teach me?

I’m not a teacher.

You’re a great teacher! Laura spread her hands. Look at all the stuff you’ve taught me around here!

We’ll see. How was your trip to Idaho?

Boring, except for stopping to see the eclipse. That was cool. Last trip as a family before I graduate, then I’m out of here. Laura motioned with her thumb.

I want you to go to college, but a selfish part of me wants you to stay here and work for me. Speaking of work, did you get the proposal submitted?

Yes, your grant proposal is on its way. It should do well. There’s lots of money out there for no-kill shelters. I also got all the arrivals that came in posted on the adoption page of the website. I was going to go out to the bird barn and clean. Unless you’ve got something else?

No. Thanks for doing the paperwork. You know how much I hate it.

Yeah, Laura grinned, you’re crappy at it too. I mean, really, how did you stay in business before you hired me?

Hey! Sarah tried to put on a hurt face, but she couldn’t help smiling. The girl was right, and they both knew it. Okay, head out to the bird barn. I’ll come to help you in a few minutes.

Teach me karate!

This again?

"I’m not letting you off the hook with ‘we’ll