The Night Vet – Part 2: Morning Shift

The goat went home at five, in the same taxi, wearing a sulky expression and a hat made of gauze.

By six, the hospital had fallen quiet. The waiting room was empty. The last dog had gone home with a cone. The cat from the drainpipe, whose name turned out to be Gerald, had been adopted by the night staff and now lay curled in a basket by the radiator, snoring.

Maia and Tom sat on the back steps with two paper cups of terrible coffee. The harbour lay before them, silver and pink, with fishing boats heading out and gulls wheeling over the water. The air was cool and salty. Behind them, the clinic hummed softly.

"Long night," said Maia.

"Good night."

"Good night, mostly."

"I think it was our best."

She leaned her head against the doorframe. She was exhausted and happy and entirely unwilling to go home. Gerald wandered out, regarded them gravely, and settled between their feet.

"He likes us," said Tom.

"He likes the steps."

"He likes both."

They sat in silence, watching the sun lift over the hills. The sky turned from rose to gold. A ferry horn sounded across the water.

"Can I ask you something?" said Maia.

"Yes."

"May I kiss you, Tom? Before the day shift arrives?"

His face lit. "Yes," he said. "And if you say stop, you must take the goat call next week."

"That is a terrifying punishment."

"I know."

She kissed him, tired and warm, a hand against his stubbled jaw. He kissed her back, slow and tender, tasting of bad coffee and mint. Gerald purred. The sun cleared the hills and flooded the harbour with light.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Maia. "Very green."

Gerald lives at the clinic now. His collar says Night Staff. The goat still sends a thank-you card, which is in fact a very chewed felt hat.

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