clatter sounded as Maggie dropped the instrument onto the scarred tabletop. The tape whirled, silently continuing to record her next words.
“Oh my God!”
Misha lifted her head, whined at the loud outburst. Maggie stepped back. Rubbed her eyes again. Oh God. It couldn’t be … surely she was exhausted, seeing things.
Dread surfaced as she forced herself to examine the clump of cells. Bracing her hands on the table, she studied the sample.
Blackened cells that had been separate, like individual drops of ink, bonded together as if pulled by invisible magnets. They surrounded the single drop of healthy blood, corralling it. Then absorbed it, sucking it into their mass. And grew.
They spread, forming a giant singular cell. As her shocked gaze watched, the singular cell divided. And again.
Cloning itself.
Cells taken from Misha’s stomach tumor were growing exponentially and forming a new organism. Growing, spreading to the edges of the slide.
It couldn’t be. Not happening. Somatic cells, even those mutated by cancer, couldn’t do this. Yet here it was, dividing and multiplying and growing to form … living tissue.
With a cry of disgust, she grabbed the slide, dropped it into a beaker of alcohol. Maggie stared, watching the now clearly demarcated black mass sink down into the liquid.
A sharp buzz made her cry out in alarm. Get a grip, Mags. Maggie sucked down a trembling breath. She covered the beaker with a towel and pasted on a shaky smile. Her sneakers thumped on the staircase as she headed for the door.
It had better not be Mark. He had agreed to take over the whole caseload while she begged off six week’s leave. But he’d phoned, whining about the work piling up.
Mark must never know how ill Misha was or he would insist on taking her pet and quarantining Misha at the office. She had to find answers herself. Misha would not be turned into a living experiment, poked and prodded by fascinated colleagues.
Maggie looked out the door’s scope. A blond little girl in a pink shorts set clutched the handle of a small red wagon. The wagon held a steel cage containing a rabbit.
Tammy Whittaker, seven, from next door. Tammy’s mother was a fussy, carefully groomed woman who insisted on calling Maggie “Miss Sinclair” instead of “Doctor.” Vets weren’t real doctors, she had said, sniffing that she couldn’t understand why anyone with a medical inclination would choose to treat filthy animals.
Dropping the curtain, Maggie felt a flutter of alarm. She only wanted to be left alone to muse over this latest frightening find.
The trilling buzz sounded again. With a sigh, she opened the door. Tammy Whittaker looked up at Maggie. Hope flickered in her huge brown eyes. “Hi, Dr. Sinclair. This is Herman, my rabbit.”
“Honey, I’m awfully busy….”
Tammy’s face screwed up. Her mouth wobbled precariously. “Herman’s hurt. Please, Dr. Sinclair, can you fix him? I have ten dollars I saved from my allowance. My mother says she won’t waste money on a stupid rabbit.”
The little girl’s woeful expression twisted Maggie’s heart. She went outside and picked up the cage containing the chocolate-colored rabbit.
“Come on, Tammy. Let’s see what’s wrong with Herman.”
Inside the spacious living room, Maggie set down the cage. She removed the large French lop from the cage and set him on the tiled floor. Herman weakly hopped. His back left leg flopped. Broken, probably.
A terrible suspicion crested over Maggie. “Tammy, how did this happen?”
Her gaze flicked away. “I forget to lock the door sometimes. He got out. Mom said he got his leg caught.”
Maggie gnawed at her lower lip. Outside of her own dog, she hadn’t examined an animal in over two months. Doing so caused odd images to flash through her mind, as if she could envision the source of the animal’s injury. Feel its past and pain.
Just an overactive imagination. It was only her great desire to heal, causing her to envision the injury’s source.
Yet the fledgling ability had grown stronger over the past six months. Maggie had solved the problem by leaving the initial exams to Mark, in exchange for doing the clinic’s paperwork.
“I thought your mother didn’t like animals.”
Sniffling, Tammy explained her friend Bobby had given her Herman when his family moved away. “It was either me or Sally. Sally has a big yard with a fence, but she’s got a hamster. Mom didn’t want him, but Dad said I could keep him if Herman stayed in the cage. Please, can you make him better? He’s hurting.”
Maggie gently stroked the quivering rabbit. Images poured through her mind like movie screen captions: Fear. Pain. Cage door open. Freedom. Good smells. Food nearby. White grass. Urge to void. Tall human. Screams. Pointed shoe. Hurt. Fear. Hide.
Tammy’s mother had kicked it in a rage for the droppings on her immaculate white wool rug.
Biting back a startled cry, she jerked her hand away. Maggie turned, hiding her reaction from Tammy.
“Is Herman going to be okay?” Tammy asked.
“He’ll be fine. I need to get the medicine to fix him.”
Maggie pushed a weary hand through her hair as she went upstairs to her office. She headed for a locked white cabinet and combed through it for the necessary supplies.
The odd ability to envision the source of an animal’s pain hadn’t vanished. It was growing stronger.
No. She hadn’t felt the animal’s pain, nor seen what happened. Besides, Iona Whittaker was fastidious, but cruel …? Ridiculous. Herman probably broke his leg …
Falling down the stairs, a deep male voice asked.
Maggie gasped, nearly dropping a box of bandages. First hallucinations, now voices? Definitely, too little sleep.
Science, not speculation. Cell mitosis. She formed images of cells, dividing, new life growing. Her mind processed the information at hand. Rabbit, broken foot caused probably by angry woman with a ruined carpet. Yes, Iona Whittaker could be cruel. People were.
Businesslike, she stacked emergency medical supplies on a tray. Splint, bandages, tape, medicine, syringe, needle, medication, prescription pad.
Downstairs, she injected Herman with a mild sedative, asked Tammy questions about school to divert the girl’s worries. Very gently, she bound the rabbit’s broken leg. Maggie settled Herman back into his cage. She inhaled the scent of fresh cedar shavings and gave the bunny a reassuring pat.
“Such a pretty chocolate color,” Maggie murmured.
Tammy brightened. “Herman’s like an Easter bunny.”
Easter bunny. Delicious, biting into a chocolate bunny.
Rabbit. Fresh. Tasty. Raw, bloodied
