My Pet Lop Rabbit Had a Fever

Chapter 2: The Missing Pages

I started with the event log, then checked the clinic records against the summarized spreadsheet Dana had placed in the packet. The first six entries matched. The seventh was incomplete.

A rabbit at the Bellwether Animal Center had triggered a high-temperature alert during the pilot. The summary marked the alert "resolved remotely." The source record included a follow-up note from a veterinarian, but the last page was missing.

"Where's the rest of this file?" I asked.

Dana didn't look up. "There isn't a rest."

"There's a footer saying page two of two."

She paused over her keyboard. "Then it must not have uploaded."

"The report says all source records were reviewed."

"Then the report's right."

I waited. She went back to typing.

I turned to the next record. The same clinic, three days later. A second high-temperature alert, also marked resolved. The note ended halfway through a sentence: "Due to the animal's reduced appetite and persistent elevation, owner was instructed to—"

The rest of the line was gone. There was no page two.

My stomach drew tight. I knew what a temperature alert meant in theory. I knew it could be a sensor fault, a measurement issue, or a warning worth taking seriously. I didn't know what had happened to the rabbit in the record, and I wasn't qualified to decide that it was nothing.

I was qualified to recognize an incomplete file.

"Dana, I can't certify this yet."

"You're not certifying the medical outcome. You're verifying the packet."

"The packet claims there are no unresolved significant events. Two source records are incomplete."

"Those alerts were reviewed by the clinical team."

"Where's that documented?"

She finally turned toward me. "Why are you making this complicated?"

"Because the record is incomplete."

"It's not a court filing, Lila."

"No, it's a launch review that HarborCare is relying on."

Her eyes held mine for a moment. "We have the clinical approval. You just need to close the documentation loop."

"Then we need a clinical approval attached."

She shut her laptop halfway. "The person who approved it is out of the office. I can't delay the launch because someone forgot to attach a page."

That didn't answer my question. It did make the stakes clearer. She wanted the packet closed tonight, whether or not the missing pages turned up.

My phone vibrated against the table. I looked down. Another message from Mara.

Mara: He won't drink from the syringe now.

I pushed my chair back. "I'm leaving. I can continue this review first thing tomorrow."

"You're not leaving until the packet is done."

"I'm not signing an incomplete record."

"Then don't sign it. Just finish the review and send it to me."

I glanced at the packet. My login was already open on the company system. Dana didn't need me to sign with ink. The electronic workflow would show the user who completed each field.

"I need the source documents," I said. "Not a summary."

"I already gave you everything."

"Then there's nothing more I can do tonight."

She stood. She was taller than me by a couple of inches, and she used that well in a meeting room. "You're creating a problem where there isn't one."

I heard the old training in her voice: Don't turn a simple request into a process debate. Be flexible. Be a team player.

Three years ago, I would have apologized for being difficult. Now I reached for the thumb drive.

"I'm saving a copy of the incomplete packet and the files I received," I said.

Her hand came down on the drive before mine reached it. "That's company information."

"I know. I'm saving it to the approved project folder."

"You don't need a separate copy."

"I'm keeping a work record."

For a few seconds, neither of us moved. Then she lifted her hand from the drive.

"Fine," she said. "Take your rabbit to the vet. I'll close the packet myself."

My fingers stopped above the table.

The words sounded like permission. They also sounded like a trap.

"If you close it, I'm not authorizing it."

"I didn't ask you to."

"Don't use my credentials."

"I know how the system works, Lila."

I put the drive in my bag, logged out of the review, and photographed the packet's cover sheet with my phone. I didn't take any patient information. I wanted the record of which report I had been asked to review and the time I'd left it.

Dana watched without commenting.

At the elevator, I checked the clinic's address. Twenty minutes away if traffic stayed clear. I called Dr. Patel's office, told them I was on my way, and apologized for being late.

The clinic had a carrier ready at the front desk. I had left Pippin's travel crate under my desk that morning, after bringing him in because he'd been sluggish. I'd thought the soft crate was more comfortable for him than his hard-sided carrier. At the time, I had thought he would be fine by the end of the day.

By the time I reached the seventh floor, it was 6:19.

I carried the crate to the elevator, one hand supporting the bottom. When I reached the parking lot, the evening air felt damp and cold. I set the crate carefully in the back seat and pulled the seat belt around it.

At the first red light, I checked my phone. Dana had sent a message.

Dana: We'll discuss your priorities tomorrow.

I typed, deleted, and then typed again.

Me: I left the packet unsigned because source records were missing. Please preserve the audit trail.

I sent it and drove toward the clinic.