the better stuff you were likely to get. If I could get the A-bomb of antibiotics, I’d take it.
“Better go see Dr. Samuel Looking Horse,” growled April War Bonnet. I jumped. She’d been silent, her diminutive frame completely concealed by the large armchair she occupied. She appeared to be reading a coupon circular.
“What?”
“Dr. Looking Horse, over at the clinic on Blue Street. He’ll put you right.” April’s eyes had a gleam and I wondered if she was setting me up for trouble. My few days’ acquaintance hadtaught me caution. I’d already endured a near heart attack over the dried llama fetus she’d left on my bed, a good luck token from a Bolivian witch doctor, and had wasted half a day looking for my cupcake and my lightning-bolt kneesocks before I realized the café tables were “wearing” them.
“Is he a real doctor? Not like your witch-doctor friend.” I hadn’t been able to get rid of my “lucky charm” fast enough. I’d rather stay cursed.
“Phffft. Native Americans can be real doctors, you know.”
Horrified, I protested, “I didn’t…”
She cut me off, enjoying herself. “He is. Plus, he’s the only doctor in town.” That sealed it. I was going.
“And when you go, steal the lobby magazines for me.” Ah. That explained the gleam. Up Market only carried a few out-of-date periodicals.
An hour later I was sitting in a paper gown, my backpack stuffed with clinic magazines. My life of crime was getting out of control, but the alternative of disappointing April promised retribution, probably in the form of my makeup glued to the counter. I’d been delighted to find a cheery little health center, rather than a larger, impersonal hospital. I didn’t like hospitals. The clinic’s smell of oranges was a pleasant change from disinfectant masking funk. Waiting for Dr. Samuel Looking Horse, I envisioned a kindly, wizened old Native American, like the guy who cried in the pollution commercials or Graham Greene. That’s not who walked in.
“Somebody needs a spanking,” I muttered.
“I’m sorry?” Dr. Looking Horse gave me a curious look.
“I’m sorry?” I parroted, with my best Innocent Look.
“Did you say something?” Quizzical.
“What?” Innocent Look.
“Did you…” He paused. “Uh, never mind.”
Dr. Looking Horse was in his early thirties, well over six feet tall, and chiseled like the dusky-skinned shirtless lothario sweeping up a feisty beauty on the cover of a book called something like Savage Native Love . In this case, he wore a white lab coat and his gleaming black hair was pulled into a ponytail. April’s twinkle became understandable. I was ready for my exam.
“I have my charts,” I handed him a sheaf of folders.
“You carry your charts around?”
“Mmm-hmmm.” I was noncommittal. It was a time-saving measure.
His eyes met mine after he scanned the first file.
“I had a sneezing fit, and my lungs feel a little swollen. Oh, and there’s the tenderness in my armpit.” I waggled my elbow like a chicken. The new symptom joined my swollen lungs as a competing illness. The exam would need to be thorough.
“A sneezing fit?” Bemused this time.
“It could be spores.” I was earnest. “I’m new to the area. Not adapted.”
“I see.” I suspected I wasn’t being taken seriously. Still, he was a professional. “Let’s have a look. Cough for me.” He placed his stethoscope to my chest. Coughing had never been so fun.
It took less than twenty minutes for Dr. Looking Horse to pronounce me perfectly healthy. “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with you.”
“Well, isn’t that sweet.” I gave him my most charming smile.
A hint of a blush stained his calm expression. He turned away. “I’ll write you a prescription for a multivitamin if that will make you feel better about acclimating to our spores.”
I squinted at him. “Uh, no thanks, I have loads.”
He faced me again, expression serious. “Ms. Connelly, there’s
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