Rabbit Notes from Overtime

The thermometer read 104.1 degrees when I pulled it out from under Mabel's front leg. I checked it again because I didn't like the number. Mabel didn't like the thermometer, either. She kicked once, turned her broad gray head away from me, and shoved her nose into the crook of my elbow. "I know," I told her. "I wouldn't like it either." She was a Holland lop, all soft fur and offended expression, with one ear that refused to lie flat. Usually she had enough energy to fling herself across the living room when I came home. That morning, she'd barely touched her hay. I had left before the veterinary clinic opened, carrying a list of symptoms and a photo of the untouched food bowl. The receptionist squeezed us into a 5:45 appointment. At 5:02, I was in the office of Northstar Veterinary Diagnostics with my laptop open and my coat over the back of my chair. I had already sent the lab team the last two figures they needed to close the shelter panel. My bag was on my shoulder. I had a carrier in the car and a rabbit with a fever at home. Then Dana Mercer tapped my desk. I hadn't heard her come up behind me. She was the quality supervisor, neat as a folded letter, with a silver pen tucked into the seam of her notebook. She rarely raised her voice. She didn't have to. People tended to listen when she said a deadline had moved. "Stay late," she said. "The Cedar Hollow results need to go out tonight." I lowered my bag. "I've finished my review." "I need you to reconcile the amended batch and approve the final report." "Which amendment?" "The repeat run." There had been no mention of a repeat run that morning. On the screen beside my draft report, the result for sample CH-14 was marked negative. The internal note said the original signal had fallen below the lab's reporting threshold. A repeat should have its own accession number, its own instrument record, and a reason for rerun. I hadn't seen any of those. I set my bag down. "I need to call my vet." Dana's mouth tightened, but only for a second. "How long?" "I don't know. They said to bring Mabel in at 5:45." "Then call them from the conference room. I'm not asking you to stay for nothing. Cedar Hollow is holding three rooms for isolation. They need the report to decide where to move the rabbits." Cedar Hollow was a regional rescue shelter that had sent us a panel of samples after several rabbits stopped eating. The clinic had told them the test was for a bacterial infection that could spread quickly through crowded housing. The report wasn't a formality. A false positive could keep healthy animals isolated. A false negative could put sick ones together with healthy ones. I stared at the clock. My immediate goal was simple: get home, put Mabel in her carrier, and get her seen. But if the result was wrong, the shelter would make a decision based on our letterhead. If I walked out, I couldn't claim I hadn't known that. "I can review it for fifteen minutes," I said. "Then I leave." "Of course," Dana said. She turned toward the glass-walled conference room. I watched her go, then picked up my phone. The clinic could not move us earlier. The receptionist said a fever in a rabbit was serious, but she could not offer medical advice over the phone. I gave my name, confirmed the appointment, and asked whether I should bring Mabel in sooner if her breathing changed. The receptionist said yes. When I called home, my neighbor, June, answered. She had agreed to check on Mabel while I was at work. She said Mabel was still sitting in the same corner, but she had taken one bite of banana. I asked June to stay nearby and call me if anything changed. Then I reopened the Cedar Hollow report. The amended batch was in a folder I had never seen before. The report showed an updated negative for CH-14, but the document history listed no analyst, no time stamp, and no equipment reference. A small gray line at the bottom read "manual override." I copied the line into my notes. Dana stopped at the door to the conference room. "You coming?" "Why was this manually overridden?" "Because the run was noisy. We discussed it." "I wasn't in that discussion." "You were in the review meeting." "The review meeting was about the first batch." Dana rested one hand on the doorframe. "The shelter needs an answer, Mara. We can go over the paperwork after the report is out." I looked back at the line on my screen. The form had my name at the bottom, in the approval field. I took my coat off.