The clinic was too bright after the den.
Sterile white walls. Posters about flea control. The faint buzz of the fluorescent lights. I stood behind the reception counter, fingers tapping a restless rhythm that had nothing to do with appointment slots and everything to do with circles and knots and wolves who’d heard too much truth last night.
Dris slid a file across the counter without looking up. “You’re going to drill a hole through the laminate if you keep that up.”
“Occupational hazard,” I said. “Some of us vibrate under stress.”
“Some of us vibrate under any conditions,” he muttered. “You’ve had three cups of coffee.”
“Two and a half.”
He raised a brow. “And a half cup of trauma. Which, by the way, you still haven’t actually talked about.”
I opened my mouth. The bell over the do
