Page 17 of Stables

One more time.

Still no answer.

Fine.

The knob is ancient brass and probably original to the house, so at least a hundred years old. That would be an easy upgrade to make it harder to kick in.

“Hello?” Letting my voice bellow through the small living room, I’m surprised to see it’s just as neat as the porch.

There’s a playpen near the couch, but the toys are in a cloth bin.

For some reason, I’d expect a musty smell, but there’s a hint of lavender and vanilla.

“I’m in the bathroom!” Charlotte calls from somewhere down the hall to the right.

“It’s Dr. McCullough, from the clinic.” I want her to know who I am.

There’s a pretty solid chance I’m violating all kinds of ethics by being here.

Strangely, it doesn’t seem to bother me.

Moving my way across the carpet to the hardwood floor, I notice too late the shoes in a row by the entrance.

Damn. I hope I’m not leaving a mess wearing my cowboy boots across her rug.

The sweet smell of children’s soap hits me before I lightly tap on the half-closed door.

“Yes, come in.” She has a sing-song lilt to her words.

When I swing the tiny room open, she turns to look up.

Her face is an angry purple, darker than when I saw her this morning.

It takes every ounce of my will not to ball my fist at seeing her hurt.

Stupid move. Don’t scare her.

Paisley’s big blue eyes stare up at me from the lip of the tub, her round cheeks flushed with fever.

“Did you get a temp?” I squat so I’m not filling the door frame, and drop my bag on the pink daisy shaped rug in front of the sink.

“One hundred and one.” Charlotte gestures to a forehead thermometer sitting on the counter.

“A cool bath is smart. She doesn’t seem in too much distress at the moment. Can I get closer to look in her ears?” Pulling the otoscope from my kit, I flick the switch to make sure the battery is working. A tiny beam of light appears on the flowery wallpaper.

“Sure.” Charlotte pivots on the toilet lid so her legs press the side of the tub.

I catch the grimace of pain she tries to stifle.

“Charlo—”

She cuts me off. “Char, please. Only my mother called me by my full name.” She turns to give me a lopsided smile.

“Fair enough. Char, you don’t need to hurt yourself. What can I do to make this easier?” There’s a red hot ball of hesitancy within me because of this foreign situation.

I’d rather be on an accident scene than knowing she’s purposefully causing herself discomfort on my account.

The corner of her mouth drops and her lower lip betrays her with a quiver. “I don’t know.” Her fingers fidget with the towel she has folded across her lap.

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