By late afternoon, the Gunther fallout had reached every corner of the firm. Clients called. The partners whispered. The phrase “damage containment” appeared in every memo. Michael & Cole handled crises for a living, but this time the crisis was inside the building.
Chase spent the day drafting neutral statements that said nothing, fielding emails that smelled like panic, and trying not to think about how fast integrity could be redefined.
At six, he caught his reflection in the dark window: tie loosened, posture folded. He looked like a man already halfway to a nuthouse. His buzzing phone snapped him out of it.
Amelia: You alive?
He typed: Define alive.
Then: Dinner at your place? I’ll try to pick out something healthy.
Her answer came back: Deal.
***Amelia***
At the clinic, the new signage had gone up while she was on lunch break.
El VIENTO ANIMAL WELLNESS INITIATIVE.
(Formerly PawsCity Vibes)
Brought to you by Santa’s Little Saviors.
Amelia stopped on the sidewalk like she’d hit an invisible curb. For a full minute she just stared at the sleek, modern font where the old hand-painted sign used to be. Where someone’s uneven brush strokes had always looked a little proud, a little human.
This one looked clean. It looked expensive.
It looked like a decision made in a boardroom.
Her manager popped her head out of the doorway, practically glowing. “Isn’t it great? New funding, new equipment! They’re sending more iPads next week.”
Amelia shifted her face to a socially acceptable shape. “Right. Progress.”
Stepping inside she told herself not to be dramatic. A sign was just a sign. Money was just money. The dogs still barked, the cats still pretended gravity was optional, and she still knew where the bandages were.
Then the little things started popping up.
The corkboard by the front desk, usually a collage of lost pets, handwritten thank-yous, and someone’s flyer for a yard sale, had been replaced overnight with a laminated poster in corporate teal:
CONSENT TO RECORD ON PREMISES.
Below it, a QR code the size of a stare.
On the counter, beside the jar of cheap dog treats, sat a new acrylic stand:
SCAN FOR WAIT TIMES / CARE UPDATES / SATISFACTION SURVEY.
The word satisfaction made her stomach do a small, private flip.
A strange man was in the hallway measuring god knows what with a little laser tool, his badge turned just enough that she couldn’t read it. He smiled.
“Hi! You must be Amelia,” he said, too familiar. “We’re just doing a quick workflow assessment.”
Assessment, as if her and her co-workers were some product on an assembly line waiting to be ‘QA’ tested.
Behind the front desk, Kwartana, the other receptionist, was clicking through a shiny new interface on a tablet that definitely hadn’t been there yesterday. The screen reflected in her glasses like a second set of eyes.
Amelia’s manager was still talking, still thrilled. “Isn’t it amazing? They’re streamlining everything. No more paper cuts. They said it’ll make us modern.”
Modern. Like the animals were the latest games console.
Amelia nodded again, because that’s what a normal person would do. Forcing her hands to stay steady, she laughed when the bulldog’s flatulence echoed in the hallway.
Maybe I’m overreacting, she told herself. Maybe this is just the part where help really is just help.
The disinfectant did smell sharper. The air felt tighter, like someone had turned the clinic down a few degrees and called it ‘market acceptable’. And the barking, usually messy and alive, sounded different in a room that suddenly had a badge-reader for it.
As she walked to the back, she caught her reflection in the glass of the new poster. Small, contained, already fitting into someone else’s layout.
On the way home she texted Chase:
Make it extra healthy.
I might sell my soul later.