“Thanks.” I squinted enough to see what I was doing as I opened the cap, took a sip, and tossed back four little tablets of relief. Hopefully. The door to the back of the shelter opened, and the cacophony of barking dogs made me flinch.
“You know what?” Neil said. “Go home and get horizontal.”
“The crappy part doesn’t last long,” I told him, although the downside to fewer episodes was that they’d started hanging on longer. When I told the doc on Friday, she’d mentioned vestibular migraines, and I was determined not to develop those, like I could hold them off by force of will.
“Sharon’s leaving in ten minutes. She can give you a ride.”
“I don’t need a ride.”
“Arthur.” Neil squeezed my shoulder and when I opened my eyes, he bent to look at me. “You worked all week. Give your body a break. Let the nice volunteer give you a ride home.”
I tried to wave him off, but a flash of pain behind my eyes made me grunt and squeeze them shut again.
Neil didn’t say, I told you so. He just said, “I’ll let Sharon know you’re riding with her.”
This bout seemed to be more headache than the vertigo that could put me on my ass, so I made it out to Sharon’s car without making a fool of myself. She drove carefully and didn’t make chit-chat, which meant she was my current favorite person.
When we got to Brooklyn’s house, she asked if I needed a hand but I waved her off. “Thanks so much. Remind me to double your salary.”
She—being a free volunteer—laughed, as intended, and drove off.
When I used the key Brooklyn had given me to open the front door, I wasn’t greeted by any of the dogs. The reason why was probably explained by the happy barks I heard from the backyard.
Xandra sat in the hallway, blue eyes staring at me, then headed toward my room with a flick of her plumy tail. Bed was her favorite thing. Mine too, right now.
As I toed off my shoes, Brooklyn appeared. “Hey, Arthur, you’re back—” At my squint and wave, he dropped his voice to a whisper. “—early. Headache?”
I nodded very carefully. “Going to lie down.”
“Anything I can do?”
“Nope. Thanks.”
I made it into my room. Xandra lay on my pillow, but I shut the door against the dogs. They had Brooklyn, lucky pups, and while Xandra could be quiet, Twain and Eb didn’t know the meaning of the word. A little isolation would be perfect right now.
I lay down inch by inch, not jarring myself. Through the throbbing in my head, I noted that my leg really did feel a little better. Maybe trading the crutch for a cane at tomorrow’s appointment wasn’t a pipe dream. I let Xandra keep my pillow and took the spare, laying my head down beside her. She purred for a moment, loud enough that I almost regretted not shooing her out, but then she quieted, and the murmur of her contentment soothed me. I kept my eyes closed and tried to relax every muscle in my body, as soft distant sounds told me my other fur-babies were well entertained.
Sleeping had seemed unlikely, but at some point, the meds must’ve kicked in, because I woke to low afternoon sunlight filtering around the curtains. My headache still lingered, and I flinched at the loud crashing sounds from the living room that’d roused me.
I struggled to my feet and headed out to see what was happening, almost tripping over Twain in the hallway.
Brooklyn and I arrived at the same time, to find Cheyenne sitting on the couch, Eb up on the furniture with his head in her lap, and a movie with some kind of shooting and explosions on the TV.
I flinched and grabbed for the wall as a building blew up in technicolor brightness and sound.
Brooklyn hurried in. “Turn that off!” He snatched the remote from Cheyenne and snapped off the screen.
“Hey! I was watching that.” She grabbed the device back and turned it back on, just in time for another rattle of gunfire.
I might’ve whimpered because Brooklyn looked my way.
“Stop it right now.” Brooklyn grabbed Cheyenne’s wrist to get the remote, and she shoved him hard.
“Don’t you touch me.”
“Sorry!” He let go, raising his hands apologetically. “But it’s too loud. Arthur has a headache. Turn it off.”
“Oh.” She glanced my way, then hit the button. “You could’ve said so.”
