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diaphragm used to be. It flies open and my heart drops through.
    “What?”
    “As we previously discussed, the buyer always had reservations based on the practice barely sustaining even a part-time veterinarian in Dr. Cobb’s associate, Dr. Lewis.”
    “Yes, but you said if I plug the holes in the schedule, fill in the gaps, demonstrate there’s enough business for one full-time vet, the sale shouldn’t be a problem. You made it sound like it was a done deal. You even promised it would take no more than two weeks to go through.”
    Critchley remains impassive, gently pushing his open palm in my direction, ordering me to stop.
    “I have, however, secured an alternative buyer.”
    Any rush of relief is tempered by my irritation at the way he is dragging this out and a sense that he is still holding something back.
    “Ever heard of a publicly owned company called Healthy Paws? They operate veterinary practices in thirty-six states?”
    “Yes,” I say. “Doc Lewis mentioned them to me. They’re the big practice across the valley and our nearest competitor. Doc Lewis sneered at the very mention of Healthy Paws, a practice obsessed with what he called conveyor belt medicine , where everyone complains they never see the same vet twice. No pet ever gets out of there without a shot or a blood test. Nickel-and-dime you as soon as you set foot in the place, his words not mine.”
    “Well, whatever the case, I ran some of your figures past one of their managers.” Critchley shakes his head in disgust. “In the past Healthy Paws would buy up pretty much any practice on its last legs, but in this economy, they are becoming increasingly risk averse. Bear this in mind when considering their offer.”
    He hands over another sheet of paper. Healthy Paws— for those on all fours . Hate that.
    My eyes flick through the details, reaching the bottom line before my mind actually registers the bottom line. “This can’t be right.”
    “That’s the offer.”
    “You’re telling me Healthy Paws will only buy the practice if I can prove my monthly production figures meet their definition of an ‘acceptable minimum.’ Otherwise there’s no deal.”
    “If it’s any consolation, they are prepared to take the average over several months.”
    “But I don’t have several months.” Or a license to practice in Vermont. Or a license to practice anywhere for that matter. “And this monthly production figure”—I slap it with the back of my hand—“is pretty much the same as the minimum monthly interest payment you want me to pay the bank. It can’t be done.”
    Critchley eases back in his chair, reaches into his briefcase one more time. It’s obvious everything is going according to plan.
    “That’s why I took the liberty of having an alternative proposal drawn up.”
    “What’s this?”
    “It’s the simplest solution, given your circumstances. The will places everything in your name and you sign everything over to the bank. We’d be more than happy to liquidate what assets remain in the practice together with the building and the associated land. It won’t nearly cover all of your father’s debt but at least you will be free and clear.”
    “You’re saying I’d get absolutely nothing, no money whatsoever.” “Correct. But think of it this way, you won’t be losing any of your own money either.”
    I get to my feet. I have a habit of pacing when I’m trying to think.
    “How long do I have to decide?”
    Critchley can barely conceal his glee.
    “I’m supposed to call Healthy Paws at nine this morning, let them know either way. Their deadline, not mine. That’s why I came over first thing.”
    I look past him to the bay window with the view of the shrunken backyard and the hiking trails behind the property. The snow’s crust sparkles in the low morning sunlight, but it’s the two trees in the foreground that have my attention. One is a mature apple tree, a Cortland, Mom’s favorite, and I still remember the