Still Love You

I was holding a frozen mouse over the wrong enclosure when the snake struck the glass. The sound snapped through the feeding room. I jerked my hand back, and the mouse slipped from its tongs, landing on the clean tile between my boots. "Don't move," Callum said from the doorway. I looked down at the mouse. Then at the long gray serpent coiled in the glass habitat. It had been thin enough to look like a piece of old rope when I saw it last week. Now its body pressed against the glass on both sides. "I'm not the one who moved," I said. Callum stepped in and pulled the door shut behind him. His dark hair was wind-tossed, and a paper cup of coffee steamed in one hand. He still wore the green wool coat he'd had since our last year at Briar Conservatory, though the cuffs had started to fray. He looked at the snake. "That's not right." "You told me to feed her." "I told you to feed June's snake." "This is June's snake." "She's supposed to have one mouse every three days." "I gave her one mouse every three days." "Then why does she look like she swallowed a bowling ball?" "I'm not a veterinarian, Callum." I bent to pick up the fallen mouse. The serpent lifted its head and watched me. Its eyes were black and glossy, like drops of oil. Callum set the coffee on a shelf and checked the latch on the habitat. "When did you last feed her?" "Yesterday morning." "You fed her yesterday?" "You said she'd missed two feedings while June was at the field station." "I said she'd missed one." "No. You said, 'She's behind on her meals, and June won't be back until Friday.'" "That doesn't mean you feed her every day." I stared at him. "You left the instructions on my desk." "I left the care card." "Which said one mouse every three days." "Exactly." "Yesterday was three days after the previous feeding." "And what about the day before that?" I stopped. I had not fed her the day before that. I had counted the days wrong, because I'd been balancing three overnight shifts in the clinic with my coursework and a final project. "I didn't feed her the day before," I said. "I checked the water." Callum's mouth tightened. "Then this is on you." The words landed with more force than they should have. I set the mouse on the steel tray. "You asked me to help." "I asked you to help June." "You said you'd take responsibility for the schedule." "I said I'd make sure you had the schedule." His face had changed. It was still the face I knew: the cleft in his chin, the pale scar by his left eyebrow, the expression he wore whenever he was trying to be reasonable. But I had learned the difference between reasonable and kind. Callum could make a knife sound like a favor. I leaned closer to the glass. The serpent remained coiled, though its scales looked strangely bright under the feeding-room lights. A faint shimmer ran along its back, silver beneath the gray. "Is she sick?" I asked. "I don't know." "You're the one who asked me to do this." "And you're the one who fed her." He took out his phone and aimed it at the enclosure. "Don't," I said. "I need a record." "Of what?" "That she's become dangerous." "She hasn't hurt anyone." "She struck at you." "She struck at the mouse." "Close enough." The serpent raised its head again. I saw its tongue flick out, thin as thread. The ward lamp above the enclosure blinked once, then went dark. Callum lowered his phone. "Did you touch the ward panel?" "No." "Did you change the heating?" "No." "Did you give her anything besides mice?" "I gave her water." "June said not to give her water from the west tap." "June told you that?" "She left a note." "There was no note." "There was." I opened my mouth, then closed it. I could remember checking the habitat. I could remember the care card. I could also remember a narrow strip of paper tucked beneath the water bowl, but it had been blank when I lifted it. The feeding-room door swung inward. June Bell stood there with her backpack over one shoulder. She was a year below us, with a neat braid and the kind of polished boots that never seemed to pick up mud. Her gaze went from me to the serpent and back. "What happened?" she asked. Callum put a hand on her shoulder. "The snake got overfed." "I fed her exactly as instructed," I said. June's eyes widened. "Exactly as instructed by who?" "Callum." "That's not what he told me." Callum removed his hand from her shoulder. "Let's not turn this into a public argument." "You walked in here with your phone out," I said. "It already is one." The serpent slid forward. Its body dragged over itself in a slow, heavy loop. Another ward lamp blinked out. June grabbed the edge of the door. "She's never done that." Callum stepped between us and the enclosure. "I'll call Professor Voss." "She's still at the retreat," June said. "She isn't due back for another month." "She's the only one who can authorize a transfer." I looked at the snake. "A transfer where?" Callum did not answer. June's expression shifted as if she had heard something in his silence. "You said she'd stay here." "I said we would see what the keeper recommended." "She's my familiar." "And she's outgrown her habitat." I reached for the emergency call button before he could stop me. "Then we get a keeper." Callum caught my wrist. His fingers were warm. I could remember every other time he had touched me: the scraped palms, the snow-melt running down our sleeves, the years when we were children and he would hook his little finger around mine as if we had made some permanent promise. "I'll handle it," he said. I pulled my hand free. "That's what you said about the instructions." The snake pressed its head to the glass. The ward lamps went out one by one.