Page 46 of Wraith

Dr. Morrison uncrosses his arms and pulls on a pair of latex gloves with the sharp snap of someone who has made a decision.

He lifts Wraith’s shirt.

The wound is a clean slice about four inches long, running along his right side just above his hip. It’s not deep — I can see that now in the harsh overhead light — but it’s bleeding steadily and it looks angry and wrong.

“That’s a knife wound,” Dr. Morrison says flatly.

“No,” I say.

“Yes, it is.”

“It’s from a claw. A single, really sharp claw. From a bear or a cougar or something.”

“I’ve been doing this for twenty-three years. I know what a knife wound looks like.” He lets Wraith’s shirt drop and steps back. “You need to take him to a hospital. I can’t help you.”

“You can,” I say. “You just won’t.”

“That’s right. I won’t.” His voice is firm, but not unkind. “Look, I understand that you’re in a difficult situation. I can see that. But I’m not a doctor. I’m a veterinarian. There are liability issues. Legal issues. Ethical issues.”

“But you know how to do stitches,” I say.

“On animals.”

“The technique is the same.”

“The technique is not the same. And even if it were, I will not do it.” He’s already moving toward the door. “This isn’t Breaking Bad. I will not stitch up your friend’s knife wound because you showed up and asked nicely. Take him to the emergency room.”

He’s at the door.

His hand is on the handle.

And I feel it — the old familiar pull of giving up, letting someone else take charge, defaulting to the path of least resistance because that’s easier and safer and doesn’t require me to be the one making decisions.

I could let Wraith handle this. He’s good at handling things. He’s spent his entire life handling things, and he’s standing right there, and I can feel him about to step in, about to take over, about to use whatever manipulation or threat or charm he has in his arsenal to make this happen.

But…

New June.

New Life.

Responsible.

I’m supposed to be better now. Stronger. The person who doesn’t fold the moment things get difficult.

My eyes scan the room and land on the instrument tray next to the exam table. There’s a scalpel there. Small. Sharp. Gleaming under the fluorescent lights.

I make a responsible choice.

I reach out, grab the scalpel, and cross to the door in three quick steps. Dr. Morrison is halfway through it when I get there, and I slip around him and block his path, the scalpel held up between us.

“You’re not going anywhere,” I say.

He freezes.

“June,” Wraith says behind me, and there’s something in his voice that might be a warning or might be approval.

“I know you know how to apply anesthetic,” I say, keeping my voice steady, reasonable, the voice of a person having a completely normal conversation that just happens to involve a surgical implement being used to make a lethal threat. “I know you know how to do stitches. Dogs need stitches all the time. Cats need stitches. I bet you’ve stitched up hundreds of animals in this clinic.”