My Pet Lop Rabbit Had a Fever

"I'm done for the day," I said, reaching for my bag. The words came out level. My pulse didn't. Across the conference table, Dana Rusk tapped the corner of her laptop with one neat, lacquered fingernail. She had the kind of calm that made a demand sound like a favor. "Not yet," she said. "Stay and finish the launch review." I looked at the wall clock. 5:58. My phone showed a missed call from Dr. Patel's clinic and a text from my neighbor, who had checked on Pippin before leaving for her night shift. Mara: He's still curled up. He took a little water from the syringe. Pippin had eaten nothing since breakfast. He was usually waiting at the pen door by late afternoon, whiskers twitching for the leafy greens I brought home. Today he'd stayed pressed against the fleece liner, ears drooping, breathing too fast. The clinic had taken his temperature over the phone and told me to bring him in as soon as I could. Rabbits could deteriorate quickly. I had said I'd be there before six-thirty. "I finished everything on my task list," I said. "The handoff is in the shared folder. I have to go." Dana's gaze moved to my phone. "It's one report." "It's not on my task list." "It is now." The animal health company where I worked, Brackenridge Veterinary Systems, had taken over two floors of an old insurance building in Bellwether Bay. The ocean was four miles away, but the windows faced a parking structure and a brick wall. On the seventh floor, we built software and documentation packages for animal clinics. I was a documentation specialist, which meant I made sure our claims, training materials, and customer records matched what had actually happened. It was careful work. It was also the sort of work people noticed only when something went wrong. Dana was my director. She had hired me three years ago, when the department still had enough people to cover a sick day without a scramble. Since then, two specialists had left, and their positions had remained empty. Dana described that as "operational efficiency." She slid a printed packet toward me. "The Alder study reconciliation. I need the final approval in the system before the client call tomorrow." I didn't sit down. "That's a clinical review." "It's a documentation review." "The file says I'm certifying that the final event log matches the source records." "And it does." I glanced at the top page. The header identified the pilot program for Brackenridge's new rabbit respiratory monitor. A dozen small clinics had tested the device, which recorded temperature and breathing patterns and sent alerts to a veterinarian's dashboard. The launch had been delayed once already. The client, a regional clinic network called HarborCare, was waiting to schedule training. I knew the product from the documentation I'd prepared. I also knew I had never been assigned to reconcile the study data. "What's changed?" I asked. "Nothing. The usual late-stage cleanup." "Then the person who did the reconciliation should sign it." Dana's mouth tightened, though the rest of her expression stayed pleasant. "You're the documentation lead. It's your responsibility to close the packet." "My responsibility is to confirm the paperwork is complete, not to certify data I didn't check." "Which is why you're going to check it." She said it as if my rabbit, the clinic, and the clock were all minor inconveniences invented to test her patience. I tried again. "Pippin's sick. I have to get him to the vet." "I'm sorry to hear that. We'll make this quick." I looked at the packet and then at Dana. The first page included a line for my electronic initials. The report was already filled in. A note at the bottom read: NO UNRESOLVED CLINICALLY SIGNIFICANT EVENTS. I didn't know yet whether that statement was true. I did know I couldn't approve it without checking. My phone buzzed again. Mara: He's grinding his teeth now. I think he's hurting. The sound in my ears narrowed to the ventilation hum and the sharp tick of the wall clock. "I need to leave," I said. Dana's fingernail tapped the packet once. "If you walk out without closing this, don't expect me to call it a scheduling issue." There it was: the threat beneath the favor. I could push back. I could argue about my hours, my task list, and the difference between administrative review and clinical certification. I could also call the clinic and tell them I'd be late while my rabbit stayed in pain. I pulled my chair out and sat down. "Give me the source records," I said. Dana placed a thumb drive beside the packet. "They're all there." The clock changed to 6:00. I opened the reconciliation folder, searching for the first event log. Dana went to the far end of the conference table and began typing on her laptop. My bag remained hooked over the back of my chair. My phone remained in my hand, the screen lit with my neighbor's message. I didn't know how long I'd be trapped in that room. I only knew I needed to find out whether the report was safe to sign.