My Pet Lop Rabbit Had a Fever

Chapter 3: What the Vet Said

Dr. Patel met me at the examination room door with a thermometer and a practiced, serious expression. Pippin's temperature was high. I watched her lift him out of the carrier, one hand supporting his hindquarters and the other beneath his chest.

"Has he eaten anything?" she asked.

"Not since breakfast. He drank a little water earlier."

"Any droppings?"

"Fewer than usual."

She nodded and placed him on a folded towel. Pippin pressed himself against the corner, his dark brown ears hanging beside his face. I reached out, but Dr. Patel held up one hand.

"Let's give him a minute. He's stressed."

I stood back while she checked his abdomen and listened to his breathing. She spoke softly, but her questions were direct. How long had he been off his food? Had he been outside? Any change in his bedding, hay, or litter? Any fall or possible chewing on something he shouldn't have eaten?

I answered what I knew. The rest I didn't.

She explained that rabbits could develop serious problems when they stopped eating, and that fever could have more than one cause. She wanted to run tests, begin treatment, and keep him overnight for observation.

"Can you tell if it's a serious infection?" I asked.

"I can tell you I'm concerned," she said. "I can't tell you the cause yet."

That answer unsettled me more than a guess would have. I signed the consent form, left my number, and watched a technician carry Pippin through a set of swinging doors.

"Can I sit with him for a little while?" I asked.

"We need to get started right away. I'll call you when I know more."

I sat alone in the waiting room under a framed print of a rabbit standing beside a flowerpot. My phone was still open to Dana's message. We'll discuss your priorities tomorrow.

I didn't answer. I looked up HarborCare in the project directory and checked the launch schedule, even though I had no reason to. The client call was booked for 9:00 a.m. The packet was supposed to be attached to the training materials by seven the previous evening.

At 7:12, Dana sent another message.

Dana: I found the missing clinical note. It changes nothing. Please don't escalate a routine delay into a compliance incident.

She had found it, then. I stared at the words and wondered how a document that changed nothing had taken so long to appear.

I called her instead of replying. She answered on the second ring.

"Where did you find the page?" I asked.

"On the study drive."

"Which folder?"

"It was misfiled."

"Can you put it in the packet?"

"I already completed the review."

"Did you complete it under your credentials?"

"I'm the director, Lila. I have authority to close the packet."

"I wasn't asking whether you had authority. I was asking whether you signed it."

A breath came through the phone. "I won't discuss internal documentation while you're in the middle of a personal emergency."

"Then don't message me about my priorities."

"Be careful how you frame this."

I glanced through the glass doors into the corridor where the clinic staff had taken Pippin. "I'm asking you to preserve the file and not attribute the review to me."

"I haven't."

"Okay."

"Tomorrow we'll sit down and talk about teamwork."

She ended the call before I could respond.

At 9:30, Dr. Patel came out and told me Pippin had received fluids and medication. He was stable but still needed to stay. She couldn't guarantee what the tests would show.

I called my neighbor to tell her I'd be home late. I drove home after midnight and slept in short, uncertain stretches. Every time I woke, I reached for my phone.

The next morning I was at Brackenridge before eight. My car still smelled faintly of the clinic's disinfectant. I went straight to my desk, turned on my computer, and opened the audit trail for the packet.

The status was complete.

The report had been submitted at 7:03 the previous night. The final approval showed my name.

I opened the activity history. My account had completed a documentation verification at 6:46 p.m. I had been in the parking lot of the veterinary clinic at 6:46. My phone's location history could show that, but I hoped I wouldn't need it.

I clicked the document itself. The missing source records were attached now. A new line appeared beneath the review checklist: "Verified against complete source set."

The attached clinical note described a follow-up appointment. It did not say whether the rabbit had recovered. It did say the clinic had recommended further evaluation and that the owner had been asked to discontinue use of the test harness until the symptoms were understood.

The study summary still described the events as resolved.

I downloaded the audit report to the approved project folder. Then I called Martin, the compliance officer, and asked for a confidential meeting.

He picked up before the second ring. "What happened?"

"I didn't complete an approval last night. The system says I did."

"Did anyone use your login?"

"I don't know. I logged out before I left."

"Don't touch the report. Don't edit anything. Send me the audit trail through the secure channel, and keep the original file where it is."

I looked at the completed approval with my name beneath it.

"I will."

"Lila, I'm going to ask you to be precise about what you saw and what you know. Nothing more."

"I understand."

"Then write it down now, while you remember the sequence."

I began typing. As I wrote, a notification appeared in the corner of my screen. Dana had booked a one-on-one meeting for 8:15.

The title was "Expectations and Accountability."