Dr. Martinez shared a vet practice with another doctor. Today was her day off, but she was sure no one would think it was weird for us to show up at the office. She gave me a windbreaker to wear, but I was still pretty freaked about seeing other people up close.
“Hi, guys,” Dr. Martinez said as we walked into the office. “This is a friend of Ella’s. She’s doing a report on being a vet, and I told her I’d give her a quick tour.”
The three people behind the counter smiled and nodded as if this was totally believable. Maybe it was. How would I know?
Two seconds after I walked in, I froze in the doorway, feeling the blood rush out of my face and a wash of terror sweep over me.
There was a man there.
In a white coat.
Dr. Martinez glanced back. “Max?”
I stared at her mutely. She gently took my arm and led me off into an exam room. “Yes, in here is where we see our patients,” she said cheerfully as she shut the door behind us. Then she turned and lowered her voice. “Max, what’s wrong? What’s the matter?”
I forced myself to take several slow, deep breaths, to uncoil the fists at my sides. “It’s the smell,” I whispered, embarrassed. “The chemical smell, like a lab. The guy in the white coat. I have to get out of here, okay? Can we just go now, really fast?” I looked for an exit, a window.
Her hand rubbed my back. “I can promise that you’re safe here. Can you stay just long enough for me to get a quick X-ray, and then we’ll leave right away?”
I tried to swallow, but my mouth was dry. My heart was pounding so hard it made a rushing sound in my ears.
“Please, Max.”
I forced myself to nod. Dr. Martinez checked to make sure I wasn’t wearing jewelry—as if—then carefully positioned me on a table. A machine hovered over me. I felt like my nerves were about to snap.
She stepped out of the room, I heard a tiny buzz, and it was all over.
Two minutes later she showed me a large dark sheet with my shoulder bones, arm, and part of my wing showing in shades of white. She stuck it up on a glass box on the wall and turned on its light. The picture jumped out brightly.
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“Look,” she said, tracing my shoulder blade with her finger. “This bone is fine. It’s all muscle damage—you can see the torn tissue here and here.”
I nodded.
“And your wing bones,” she said, unconsciously lowering her voice, “all seem fine. Which is good. Unfortunately, muscle damage usually takes longer to heal than bones do. Though your rate of regeneration seems weirdly fast, I must say.”
She frowned at the X-ray, tapping it with her finger. “Your bones are so fine and light,” she murmured, as if talking to herself. “They’re beautiful. And then . . . huh. What’s this thing?”
She was pointing to a bright white square, maybe half an inch wide, that sat smack-dab in the middle of my forearm. “That’s not jewelry, is it?” She glanced down at me. “Is it the zipper of the windbreaker?”
“No—I took it off.”
Dr. Martinez leaned closer to the picture, squinting her eyes. “It’s a—it looks like a . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“What?” I said, unnerved by the expression on her face.
“It’s a microchip,” she said hesitantly. “We put something similar into animals. To identify them in case they’re lost. Yours looks like a, like ones we use on really expensive pets, show dogs and such. They have a tracer in them in case they’re stolen. They can be tracked, wherever they are.”
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The look of comprehending horror that rose in my face alarmed Dr. Martinez.
“I’m not saying that’s what it is,” she said quickly. “It’s just what it looks like.”
“Take it out,” I said hoarsely. I held out my arm and pushed up my sleeve. “Please. Take it out right now.”
She looked at the X-ray again, studying it for several minutes while I tried not to jump out of my skin.