Page 16 of High Density

I’m not law enforcement anymore, but my training takes over as I take in every detail of the scene. She’s spread-eagled, both arms flung out over her head, and her legs are open, one cocked at the knee. Her shirt and bra are shoved up over her breasts, and a pair of discarded jeans are crumpled at the base of the rocks on this side. She’s still wearing a sock on one foot.

There is no visible blood anywhere, but when I approach her, I can tell her eyes are open.

Unfortunately, she’s not seeing anything. Not anymore.

Janey

My brain has been scrambledfor days.

I’m trying to get ahead of the game, so when I’m expected at the rodeo grounds on Monday to meet with Phil Jericho and Mackey Livestock, I can be focused on the job at hand.

In addition, I’ve been boning up on my knowledge of rodeo, which is surprisingly thin, as I’ve come to discover.

All I know is I’ve always had a vague distaste for rodeo, despite it being a pretty standard part of living here in the Northwest. I hated it as an idealistic teenager, but that has mellowed some with age and exposure, although I’m still rooting for the animals.

I’m not sure if that makes me more or less qualified for this job. Either way the job is mine, and I’d do well to study what I’m getting into so I don’t make a fool of myself.

So, I’ve been doing a lot of reading and researching when I haven’t been working these past days. There hasn’t been a lot of sleep, but at least I know now what types of injuries to look for in the different events, and have studied up on signs to look out for.

Hopefully it’s enough to keep me from looking incompetent. I don’t normally lack in confidence when it comes to my work, but I’m already burning the candle at both ends and I guess I’m worn a little thin. The prospect of adding more to my plate has me dreading the upcoming week of activities.

But I asked Logan to assist me at the rodeo, and he seems excited enough for both of us. He’s been working a lot already, taking most of the nightshifts when we have overnight patients,but he seems to enjoy it. Who am I to argue? I’m no longer that young, or that driven.

I watch as Logan leads Daisy, the potbelly pig, through the door separating the clinic from the barn. The animal was brought into the clinic earlier this afternoon with labored breathing. Pigs are notorious for respiratory issues, and this one seems to have developed a serious case of pneumonia. She had her first shot of amoxycillin but will need several more tomorrow and over the coming weekend, which is why we’re keeping her here.

“Go home, Frankie,” I tell the assistant I inherited from Doc Evans.

I’m not sure what I would’ve done without her this past year. A Libby native, she knows just about everyone, which has proven helpful at times. She’s also handy with the animals, friendly with their owners, and knows how to manage a schedule. I’m not kidding when I say she’s been indispensable.

“I’ll just finish this,” she says, pointing at a stack of filing.

“It’ll wait until tomorrow. And remember, I don’t want to see you here this weekend either. Get rested up, because next week is going to be a test of endurance for all of us.”

“You get some rest too, and don’t forget to eat.”

I’ve probably got at least a decade on her, but that doesn’t stop her from trying to mother me. Honestly, I probably need it. The last time I sat down for a proper meal was when JD took me for Mexican earlier in the week. Since then, it’s been PB&J sandwiches, canned soup, and frozen pizza. I enjoy cooking but haven’t had the energy.

As Frankie heads out to her car, I look down at Ginger, who is doing a lot better and has taken to hanging out in the clinic during the day. The last few nights I’ve been taking her home with me.

“What do you say, girl? Ready to go home and get some grub?”

Her tail thuds on the linoleum floor in response.

I turn off the lights, grab the stack of printouts I plan on studying over the weekend, and hold the door open for Ginger. She hobbles to the grass where she has a quick pee while I lock up the clinic. Every day she gets around a little better on her three good legs. She sometimes tries to put weight on the casted leg, but it’s painful. Good thing, since she really shouldn’t be putting weight on that leg at all.

As soon as I open the door at my place, she slips past me and makes a beeline for the dog bed I put next to the couch. Even that short walk from the clinic here tired her out, and by the time I’ve showered and changed into something more comfortable, she’s already snoring.

I’m in the kitchen, checking my pantry to see what I could throw together for dinner, when my doorbell lets out a garbled ring. Something else on my list of things to replace. It’s rare to have someone at my door, especially at this hour, so I’m a little apprehensive when I peek outside.

“I took a chance,” JD says, looking a bit sheepish as he stands on my porch, holding up a brown paper bag.

I dart a glance down at my ratty sleep pants and old concert shirt and am about to blow him off, when I notice a haunted look in his eyes, and strain on his face.

“I’m not dressing up, but you’re welcome to come inside,” I tell him instead.

The moment I step aside to let him in, I hear Ginger’s low growl.

“It’s okay, girl,” I coo, slipping ahead while he kicks off his boots. I crouch next to her, assuring her with my voice and my touch. “He’s a friend.”

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