see a copy of the loan, the statements. Maybe the bank was pulling something over an elderly, not-right-in-the-head farmer? It wouldn’t be the first time a financial institution screwed over the little guy. The accountant part of his brain started sifting through possible tactics.
He could use a win. Even if it was against some small-town, patchouli-scented bank that had probably never even heard of mobile deposit.
The stack of shoeboxes on the hideous couch caught his eye again. He shoved out of the chair to examine them. Each one was labeled: Receipts, Important Papers, Family Stuff, More Receipts and Paperwork, Stuff I Might Need Sometime.
There was a sticky note on top of the first box.
Ryan, Everything you need is here.
Curious, he lifted the lid. The box was crammed full of crumpled receipts, a collection of rubber bands, and coupons for soap that expired in 1988.
“Nope. Whiskey first,” he decided.
Grabbing his coat and keys, he headed back outside in the frigid December air, got into his roller skate of a car, and started to bump his way slowly down the snowy lane.
A large, white blob lumbered out of the dark several feet in front of him. The car’s sensor beeped frantically. Ryan slammed on the brakes just as the navigation’s French voice flatly announced an “object in road.”
The dull thump seemed to come a second too late, but it still made his stomach turn.
3
Dr. Sammy Ames’s festive Santa scrubs smelled like cat pee. The love bite from an ornery parrot throbbed a little under the candy cane-striped bandage. And her Peace of Pizza lunch special had gone cold hours ago in a breakroom decked out in holiday decorations.
Her vet tech would have doubled over with laughter if he could see her now. But Demarcus was celebrating Hanukkah with his in-laws so there were no witnesses to her temporary foray into clinical veterinarian medicine.
It hadn’t been a bad day, she decided, taking another bite of stale pizza.
She’d enjoyed the challenge of filling in at the veterinary clinic. But she was very much looking forward to returning to her own large animal practice in the morning. Her days were typically filled with house calls to inoculate livestock, perform ultrasounds on pregnant mares, birth calves. She was outdoors more than in, her patients much larger than the ones she’d seen today, and her clients were down-to-earth farmers.
Rolling out her shoulders, she checked the time on the kitty cat clock mounted to the wall. Its eyes ticked to the left as its tail tipped right. Closing time was twenty-seven minutes away. Which meant she was only an hour or so from a hot shower, clean pajamas, and some serious crafting time. If she didn’t get her ass to a craft store and block out some serious hours over the next three days, her “great fundraiser idea” was going to be a gigantic failure.
“Hey, Dr. Sammy. Thanks again for filling in for Dr. Turner,” Nimbus Miller, a swarthy former high school football star turned vet tech, greeted her as he bopped into the room and headed for the vending machine. The puffball on the end of his Santa hat swayed as he considered his options.
“It was no problem,” she said. “I hope he’s feeling better.”
“Bet he’ll rethink the family hot dog eating contest next time,” Nimbus predicted, pressing the buttons for an apple walnut granola bar.
Dr. Turner had called in the favor at midnight the night before. Diagnosis: Listeria-induced diarrhea. He’d been on the schedule at the clinic for a twelve-hour shift. Still mostly asleep, Sammy had mentally kissed her own day off goodbye and agreed to take his shift.
It put her even further behind on Project Holiday Wreath, but this way, all the appointments were kept and animals were treated without delay. After all, that was the most important thing.
“Oh, hey. Think you’ll have any wreaths with little icicles on them?” he asked.
“I’ll save one for you,” she promised, making a mental note to buy plastic icicles.
Her phone buzzed on the table. Nimbus threw her a salute as he chomped down half of the granola bar in one bite on his way out the door.
She wiped her hands on her scrub pants and answered. “Hey, Mom.”
“Samantha.” Dr. Anastasia Ames managed to convey quite a bit with one word. Aggravation, expectation, a vague annoyance that always accompanied her conversations with her daughter.
“What’s wrong?” Sammy asked, biting back a sigh.
“First of all, I heard that you’re working at the Turner Clinic today.”
Her mother had retired from the practice