2

SAMANTHA

You actually did it," Jeneva said.

"Nothing motivates me more than being told I can't do something."

My sister chuckled on the other end of the line.

It was four days after the visit with Dr. Asshole. The GoFundMe had almost nine thousand dollars in it.

Pooter was playing with the jingly cat ball I got her in my living room. She'd swat it, then chase it across the floor and pounce on it. I smiled at her on my way to the couch.

"Did you know it was going to go viral?" Jeneva asked.

I shrugged. "I mean, I can't always be sure. But sort of. Cute baby animal in need, clear call to action, catchy slogan."

"‘Pooter Needs a Poop Chute' was genius…"

"It's what I do." I plopped onto the sofa with my iced coffee.

"I hope he sees it," she said.

"I hope he sees it too. Dick. You know what's even worse?"

"What?"

"He was, like, seriously fucking hot. When he was being mean to me, he actually got hotter. Why am I like this?"

Jeneva clinked dishes around. "Did you write him a bad review?"

I dragged a throw blanket across my lap. "Nah. Honestly, I picked him because he had such good ratings. The reviews actually warn you that he's all brilliant and crabby, some moody animal whisperer or something."

"We do love a cranky king," she said distractedly.

"I mean, I could see where he was coming from, he just didn't have to be rude about it. I never get why white men are grumpy. Like, we're living in a patriarchy. You're the most privileged class on the face of the earth. You're not walking to your car with your keys through your fingers like wolverine and you've got body autonomy, why the bad mood?"

"What did he look like?" she asked.

"Like if Rhysand from the ACOTAR series were a real person," I said, putting my straw between my teeth.

"No…"

"I swear to God. Hold on, I'll google him, see if I can find a picture."

I put her on speaker and typed Xavier Rush veterinarian into the search bar and hit images.

A picture of him holding an award popped up on the American Veterinary Medical Association website. He'd been recognized last year for some gargantuan amount of volunteer hours treating rescue animals.

He looked irritated, like he didn't want to be there. Handsome, but definitely a hostage situation.

"Here," I said, sending her a screenshot.

I sipped my coffee while I waited for her to look at it.

"Oh yeah…" she said.

"If he doesn't do the bat wings, tattoo thing for Halloween it's a seriously missed opportunity," I said.

"Do you think he smiles at the dogs at least?"

"Probably not."

"My toxic trait is thinking I could change him," she said.

"Ha. My toxic trait is not caring if I could change him."

She laughed.

I could hear Mom come into the room in the background.

"Tell her hi," I said.

"Samantha says hi."

"Who?" I heard Mom say.

"Samantha," Jeneva repeated.

Silence followed. Mom didn't say hi back.

I stared at Pooter while I tried to get my feelings about this to flatten.

"How is she?" I asked.

"Fine." Then to Mom, "I'm making you dinner. We're having pasta. No, you don't need to help, I got it."

I reached under the sofa and pulled out my laptop to check the Pooter funds. This was the core source of my serotonin this week. Well, the kitten too. But the GoFundMe was a multipart success for me. It meant I could save my baby, it renewed my already high faith in humanity, and it meant Dr. Asshole was wrong, which was a petty kind of joy, but a solid one nonetheless.

The page loaded and I smiled. Almost ten thousand now. I was close enough that I felt comfortable scheduling the surgery. And just in time too. I was heading to California in six weeks and I'd have to take Pooter with me, so the sooner she started healing the better.

"I'm excited for you to see the house," Jeneva said. "We've done a lot of repairs."

I heard Mom again.

"We're having pasta, Mom," Jeneva said. "Yes, I'm making you dinner. No, just sit, you don't need to help, I got it."

I moved the phone away from my mouth like she could hear my expression. Then, instead of letting the knot in my throat thicken, I hit refresh on the donations page.

Someone just donated $500.

I sat up.

Most people gave twenty-five. Maybe fifty. I'd gotten a handful of hundred-dollar donations. Nothing this high. I looked at the name and my eyes went wide.

Jeneva must have heard the gasp. "What?" she asked.

"The grumpy vet," I breathed. "He just donated all this money to my GoFundMe."

"Really?"

"Yes!"

I read the note. My three favorite words: You were right.