samaqi: Thank you all for the kind words about Monkey. It has been a few days since he passed away in my arms, we are doing way better, but now and then we still experience bursts of tears.

This chapter is supposed to follow the one where Angelo was put down, but it's too painful for me to write it right now without feeling Monkey's head resting on my arm over and over again. So here it goes: I'm self-inserting as a vet and retelling their day. I'll write Angelo's chapter in a few weeks after I receive Monkey's ash.

Monkey's pawprint I had taken before he left us:deviantart[d0t]com /samaqi/art/1114077147

Beep beep beep!

Beep beep beep!

I open my eyes and stare at the clock: 6:17AM.

It was 18:17 when a truck hit the car my mom was driving with me in the back when I was 10, in case you are wondering about my odd wake-up time.

My head hurts. Did I work late last night? Oh, stop—please don't think about work. I only have one hour and forty-three minutes free from work each day.

You see, my duties as a vet seem to pile up even though I've advanced in my career. Day after day, we have to divide the number of euthanasias—not just for fairness, but also to balance the emotional toll of ending a life and facing the tears of pet owners. Statistically, male veterinarians are twice as likely, and female veterinarians nearly four times as likely, to die by suicide compared to the general population. Euthanasia takes an emotional toll. I can't help but wonder if my hefty paycheck is the reason our upper management assign me extra cases, or if it's simply because I have no kids and no pets like many of my co-workers, they assume I'd feel less emotional.

Hang on, a vet without pets? Glad you ask. I don't need pets; I have plenty to care for at work. Being single with no kids, who takes care of my pet if I'm away?

Not that I'm away very often. On my last four trips, I was out with Cassidy and her fiancé. Now that they're recently married, my chances of getting out of Deling are slim. And who knows when they'll have a kid? My social life feels doomed. Her attention will be divided—who will deliver the bad news to pet owners after 6PM on my behalf? She's a pro at consolation; I'm a pro at euthanasia. Let's settle for that.

After turning on the electric kettle, I grab a ramen packet from the cupboard. I am tempted to put the ramen in the kettle so that by the time the water boils, I can eat the noodles immediately. No one is here to call me an animal, so why not? The thing is I'm bold, but not stupid. It's the cleanup afterward that keeps me from drowning the ramen in a strange place. Hyne, how many times have I hopped on this bizarre train of thought?

Breathing in and out, I repeat the calming exercise until the kettle stops. Mindfully, I pour the boiling water over the ramen. While waiting for the noodles to soften, which usually takes only three minutes and forty seconds as opposed to manufacturer's recommendation of five minutes, I head to the medical cabinet to retrieve my OCD medication. Yay me, I have a new pad today.

"Shit! Not again!"

I frown at the five rows and two columns of half orange, half white pills. Out of ten pills, only one in the bottom right has the orange half facing left. The manufacturer must be doing this on purpose! There's no cleaner way to kill OCD patients. I feel like I can drop dead right away. But wait, I can't. I really don't want to die with this imperfect pad next to my corpse.

I immediately take out the misplaced pill and set it next to my ramen bowl. The lonely pill never escapes my gaze as I suck in each strand of noodles. Some days if I'm in a hurry, I eat them in Fibonacci sequence: 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13... But I don't feel like rushing today, so one by one it goes.

At last, I swallow the half orange pill with the remaining soup. I pull out my smartphone, set a timer for ten minutes, and turn on my favorite Final Fantasy music radio channel. Closing my eyes to reduce distractions, I imagine each Clomipramine molecule swimming down my esophagus, dissolving in the acid sea of my stomach full of noodles, and then being absorbed through the lining of my small intestines. Ten minutes, then my troubled mind will be able to find some peace.

I adjust my earbuds, shoving them deeper into my ears to filter out any noise below 50 decibels, and turn up the volume when the radio plays "Don't Be Afraid" to let the music further drown out my wandering thoughts. By the end of the song, which lasts 3 minutes and 46 seconds, I can already feel the calming effects of the pill.

"Newspaper!"

A Zhou—the paperboy from my apartment complex—knocks loudly on my door and slides today's Deli News inside. Based on the frequency of his footsteps, he must be in a hurry this morning. I immediately rise from my chair to pick it up and open the door.

"You're early today!"

"Hot news, Auntie Ming Yue. I have a lot more to deliver today."

"Aren't every day blessed with hot news?" I scoff.

"Today's news is Hynely hot. Angelo is dead!" A Zhou grinned. "I gotta go."

Angelo.

Right, I euthanized Angelo. But…

The radio station switches to the next song: Premonition.

How? When? And again… how?

A chill runs down my spine as I look at Angelo in the newspaper, my eyes dance around the texts. I hold my breath, not daring to exhale, as I seek to open my vet bag. Inside, the syringe I marked with the letter "A" and yesterday's date remains in the same place where I prepared it the day before. I haven't used the syringe that was supposed to inject sleep medicine to the said dog. My memory, usually perfect, is blank from the moment the Estharian officer confiscated my phone until this morning.

His name, as I clearly remember from his badge, was Radiante Smailes.