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all the time you need.”
    Mrs. Clark looks up from Lucy and says something to Dr. Mac that I can’t quite hear. But she must have said “alone” because Dr. Mac stands and ushers me out.
    We walk across the hall to the Dolittle Room. Dr. Mac hands me a tissue and dabs her own eyes with another. Brenna steps in, followed by Maggie, who leans on the doorframe. Other than Dr. Mac, we’re all still in our pajamas.
    â€œHer diabetes?” Maggie asks.
    â€œActually, not this time,” Dr. Mac replies. “It’s her advanced age. For a diabetic cat, her glucose level isn’t too bad. But her body is running down, her heart is slowing, and her breathing is shallow and labored. Mrs. Clark gave that cat many extra years because she was so diligent with her food and water and insulin. But the end is near.”
    Maggie and Brenna both look over at me.
    â€œI have to go to the bathroom,” I say. I’ve cried in front of my friends before—I think we all have when a special animal dies. But this morning I feelparticularly raw, and I want to let my tears run in peace. Because other than my own cat, Mittens, there is no other cat I love as much as I love Mrs. Clark’s dear, sweet Lucy.

Chapter Six

    A fter a good cry in the bathroom, I splash water on my face and go back into Dr. Mac’s house. Dr. Mac is in the kitchen sipping a cup of tea. She gives me a hug and tells me that Maggie and Brenna have gone upstairs to shower and get changed. “Go on up and join them,” she adds.
    By the time we come back downstairs, Dr. Mac has a selection of cereal and fruit out on the counter for us. In a soft voice, she tells us that Lucy is gone.
    Poor, sweet Lucy. Dr. Mac was right when she said it wouldn’t be long. Lucy was gone within fifteen minutes of our leaving the room. Mrs. Clark’s son came to pick her up. We were all glad thatshe chose not to drive home. Her car will be fine parked out front until they can come back to get it.
    The rest of the morning passes quickly. We treat a puppy that decided to try to eat a sock and admit a dog—a golden retriever–poodle mix known as a golden doodle—with a broken hind leg. She was one of the fireworks freak-outs from last night. But her owners didn’t realize she was really injured until this morning when she wouldn’t put any weight on one of her legs. And I am able to tackle some of the filing while it’s still raining.
    After a while, I look out the window at Mrs. Clark’s car. The rain splashes on the hood in big, slow drops. Brenna comes into the reception area and stands beside me.
    â€œIt’s quiet in here right now,” she says. It’s true. Not another car in the lot and no one waiting to be seen. Of course, when you’re the designated weekend emergency clinic, all that can change in an instant. Still, it’s nice to have a little calm.
    Brenna opens the window blinds wider. “Looks like it’s letting up,” she says. “That’s good for all the people with cookouts planned for today.”
    â€œIs your family having a cookout?” I ask.
    Brenna leans on the windowsill. “Next weekend,” she says. “My grandparents are coming into townthen, and we’ll eat potato salad and pretend it’s still the Fourth. Looks like it’s turned out to be a good thing I was free, what with all the other Vet Volunteers away.”
    â€œWe are a small group,” I say.
    â€œBut mighty,” Brenna adds, raising her hand for me to high-five. I stretch and smack her palm with mine.
    â€œWhat are we high-fiving?” Maggie asks, coming up behind us.
    â€œThe mightiness of our tiny band of Vet Volunteers,” Brenna says.
    â€œIs that what we are? Good to know,” Maggie says, laughing. She glances out the window. “Rain’s about done. We didn’t get that run in, but how about shooting hoops until Gran needs us