The clinic always felt different at night.

The fluorescence hum louder, the stainless steel counters gleamed too sharply,

and the waiting room smelled faintly of antiseptic and wet fur.

I told myself I prefer the late shift, fewer clients, fewer crises.

But the truth was, it always felt lonelier than it should.

I moved through the motions like any other night.

A golden retriever with a sour stomach had just gone home with anti-acids.

A hissing tabby sat sedated in recovery after we'd lanced an abscess, and in the corner, a rabbit dozed under a blanket as fluids dripped into its tiny leg.

Paperwork piled next to me, glowing blue under the desk lamp.

I was a year out of school, barely scraping by on night differentials, but it was steady work,

and after the last clinic I'd burnt out of, I needed steady.

The bell above the front door startled me out of my thoughts.

Clients weren't supposed to come this late, our after-hours number routed to an

emergency hospital across town. But a man stumbled in, pale and wild-eyed, clutching a shoebox to his chest.

He didn't wait for me to greet him. It's not from here, he blurted, thrusting the box onto the counter.

His hand shook so badly the lid rattled. I tried to be calm and professional. All right, let's

have a look. Inside was... A cat?

Or close enough to fool someone glancing quick?

Firmatic grey, eyes too wide, chest rising with shallow, uneven breaths.

But the teeth were wrong.

When it opened its mouth to pant, I saw rows of them, thin and translucent, like a

vicious gills sharpened into needles.

...