Page 21 of Broken Instrument

Near the bed, Pixie’s massive body heaves as she pukes up a dark brown, putrid sludge, and my stomach rolls. My nose wrinkles, and I dig my phone out of my pocket and Google dogs and chocolate. The combination isn’t promising. My panic spikes as I pull up Hadley’s information and press call. I haven’t talked to her since the park, but it isn’t because I haven’t wanted to. If anything, it’s because I have wanted to. And I shouldn’t want things like that. Connections like that. I could see it in her eyes. She felt it too. The pull. But I’ve learned the hard way how dangerous a pull can be, and I don’t plan on responding to it anytime soon.

But Pixie puking her guts out is a different story, and Hadley has a right to know.

How could I be so damn stupid? The bag was on my nightstand. I’d been eating them this morning before I left.

You’re a fucking idiot, Fender!

I scrub my hand over my face, unsure what the hell I’m supposed to do in this situation when Hadley’s quiet feminine voice filters through the speaker.

“Hello?” Her tone is hushed and raspy, as if she already knows I fucked up.

“Pixie got into chocolate.”

“Wait, what?”

“Pixie got into chocolate,” I repeat.

She sniffles. “H-how much chocolate?”

I look around the wrapper-covered floor, my skin paling. She must’ve found the stash in my closet too.

“A lot of chocolate,” I tell her.

“We, uh,”––another sniffle––“we need to get her to a vet. I don’t know who she usually goes to, but––”

“Probably the one by Bud’s place. I remember driving past it every day when I crashed on his couch.”

“I’ll meet you there,” she murmurs.

As I go to hang up, she adds, “And Fen?”

“Yeah?”

“This isn’t your fault, okay?”

With a self-deprecating laugh, I squeeze my hand into a fist and search for Pixie’s leash, not bothering to hide the disdain in my voice as I reply, “Sure, it isn’t. See you in fifteen.”

* * *

Hadley’s white Camry is in the lot, and I pull in next to it, shoving my car into park. Pixie’s massive, at least 120 pounds, but I cradle her in my arms as if she’s a child, ignoring the putrid scent clinging to her breath as we head into the vet’s office.

When Hadley sees us, she points to Pixie and tells the vet tech near the receptionist desk, “That’s her.”

The guy can’t weigh more than the dog in my arms and is wearing blue scrubs and white Nikes as he waves me to a back hallway. “Follow me.”

We head to an exam room but don’t have to wait long when someone appears in a white coat with the name Dr. Grover scrawled above the right pocket on his chest.

“So, I heard this girl got into some chocolate,” he confirms, examining Pixie in my arms.

I nod and force myself to set her down but keep my hand on her head, unable to stop myself from touching her, though I’m not sure if it’s for her benefit or mine. I feel like shit because she feels like shit, and it’s all my fault.

“Do you know how long it’s been since she ate it?” he prods.

I look down at Pixie and attempt to do the math in my head. “Thirty to forty-five minutes, I think?”

“Has she vomited or had any diarrhea?”

“Both.” I scratch behind her ear, surprised by the fear coursing through my veins. I’ve barely had her for more than a few weeks, but the idea of her dying because I left chocolate out kills me.

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