Page 73 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer
Sure. A seat. So I can sit here for a really long amount of time with blood-covered clothing in my bag. My mind races to the chances of a cadaver dog coming in for Sunday spa day and heading straight for me.
I choose one in the corner and perch like I’ve never sat in a chair before, hands folded over my bag like it’s going to make a break for it.
Across the waiting room, Dexter stares at a French bulldog like he’s telling him everything we’ve done, and my phone pings with a text.
I’m greeted by my besties overly smug grin, perfectly bald head, oversized eyewear, and a giant mimosa raised in mocking toast.
SEBASTIAN: When the first date turns into brunch the next morning. Fair warning, I’ll be sending drunk selfies in about an hour.
I huff softly, lips pressing together even as a reluctant smile threatens to crack my stressed demeanor.
ME: Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!
His reply is instant, the sass practically radiating off my screen:
SEBASTIAN: Definitely not following that advice. See you tomorrow, Counselor Killjoy.
SEBASTIAN: Don’t forget we’re spilling tea!
SEBASTIAN: I want it piping hot.
I chuckle despite myself, feeling briefly lighter before my worries inevitably drag me back down again.
Another ping.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:
Nothing.
What in the three-ring circus is this?
POPPY: STOP
I don’t know what kind of spam list I ended up on, but I want off.
We’re called back ten minutes later by a vet tech. A few more minutes of agony and the vet comes in.
She gives Dexter a thorough once-over—ears, teeth, paws, heartbeat. “He’s in great shape,” she says. “No injuries, no concerns. Aside from having only one tooth, of course.”
She scans for a microchip. I hold my breath like we’re in a bomb-disposal scene.
Nothing.
She checks again.
Still nothing.
I exhale so sharply it might qualify as a small exorcism.
“Well,” she says, gently scratching under Dexter’s chin, “whoever owns him takes very good care of him.”
My fingers are shaking. “Yeah, he just… showed up.”
“You may want to put up some fliers,” she adds helpfully. “Post online? See if anyone’s looking for him.”
I nod like that is absolutely something I will be doing. “Yes. Great idea. I’ll get right on that.”
When pigs sprout wings and file their taxes.
