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feet.
    “Dr. Mills, by refusing to sign over Bedside Manor to the bank this morning, whether or not you sell to a prospective buyer, your minimum monthly payment on your consolidated debt comes due thirty days from today. However, given the nature of this speculation, my boss will insist on some sort of a … good faith payment … long before that date. Let’s say twenty-five percent. Something to prove you’re on track. Something to prove we are not about to throw more good money after bad. You understand?”
    “When?”
    Critchley hesitates, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s making this up as he goes along.
    “End of business this week.”
    “But that’s only four days from now.”
    “Best I can do, given the circumstances.” He pulls out an imposing document, I presume a contract. “You don’t have to sign this. It’s not too late to change your mind.”
    I clear a little space on the table and my Green State Bank envelope tower comes crashing down. Critchley shakes his head, passes me the contract, and he’s about to hand over a pen when he catches himself.
    “Do you understand what you are doing? With the business transferred to your name, you become personally responsible for every bill and every angry creditor who demands their money. In essence, you will have to pay for the sins of your father.”
    Too late , I think. It’s one thing to go ignored by your father growing up, but the wrong he did to me when I lost my mother was his sin and I’ve already been paying these last fourteen years.
    “What do you say we make it Saturday, not Friday? Five days from now. You can’t deposit the money until Monday either way. Call it part of my new business model, expanding hours to include the weekend.”
    Critchley shakes his head. “You really think the extra day will make a difference?”
    “Definitely. Swing by on Saturday to pick up your check. I guarantee the folks from Healthy Paws will make me an offer in less than three weeks,” I say, trying but failing to sound confident as I sign on the dotted line.
    “Let’s hope so, Dr. Mills. Though I think you’re making a colossal mistake, I applaud your desire to keep your father’s legacy alive.”
    I finish the s in Mills with a flourish and look up.
    “Trust me, Mr. Critchley, this venture has nothing to do with him.” I stop short of adding “and everything to do with solving my legal troubles and getting back to an uncomplicated life.”
    I have time to catch the mischief in his eyes, a glint that says, you’re not fooling me , before Frieda begins to bark again—Critchley’s discomfort around dogs my only consolation.
    “Typhoon’s hungry,” I say. “He wants his breakfast.”
    Critchley snatches up the signed form and takes it with him rather than returning it to his briefcase.
    “See you at week’s end, Dr. Mills.”
    He’s already halfway out of the dining room, but he knows where I am headed.
    “Thanks,” I say. “Now if you don’t mind letting yourself out.”
    I time Frieda’s release to perfection—her body slams into the door at the top of stairs, right on his heels.

4
    “See anything like this before?”
    The question feels like an accusation, hissing between the clenched dentures of a wizened old woman, one Mrs. Silverman, currently regarding me with unconcealed hostility. I’m grateful for the six-month-old husky by her side who ignores me altogether. His sudden focus on scratching off certain portions of his flesh has rendered me invisible. Virtually reptilian, the skin around the poor creature’s eyes, muzzle, ears, and feet has been replaced by thick and crusty scales that exude the aroma of fermenting yeast.
    “Doc Lewis has been trying to fix up Kai for months and I can already tell”—at this point Mrs. Silverman narrows her steely eyes and juts a hairy, powdery chin in my direction—“you’re no Doc Lewis. Or Doc Cobb for that matter.”
    She said, Doc Cobb, not “your father.” I can’t tell