The Christmas Camel by Vered Ehsani

Author:Vered Ehsani
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sterling & Stone

Chapter Twenty-Three

“Are you sure you’re up for this?” I asked for the second or maybe third time. “If you really have a concussion, shouldn’t you be in bed? The doctor recommended three days at least.”

Dolittle sighed. I noticed he did that a lot. Was it a reaction to me, my family in general, the town, or was he always so wistful?

“I’d like to have a fresh change of clothes,” he finally spoke, his words measured and precise. “It’s a good way to start the day.”

“Every day?”

He said nothing, just stared straight ahead. He was probably counting backward from ten, or whatever tools his therapist had given him. Or maybe he was one of those rare types of people who didn’t need a therapist.

Weirdo.

Darren pulled out a pack of cinnamon-flavored chewing gum. He offered me a piece.

“Clean clothes are so overrated,” I babbled around the gum as I steered Daisy sharply around a corner. “Remember that time when we all lived in our pajamas for days on end?”

“I’d rather not.”

“My personal record was a whole week. Same PJs, day and night. I don’t think I even showered.”

Dolittle’s next sigh was louder. My suspicion felt confirmed. I couldn’t believe anyone sighed this much normally. Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned my personal record in the hygiene department, or lack thereof. Some details should never be shared.

“Is Beaver Motel as bad as you say?” he finally asked.

“Even worse.” Daisy’s front passenger tire rolled onto the sidewalk, and I jerked the steering to stay on the road. “Sharon Beaver makes Miss Myrtle look practically benign.”

“What has that to do with the motel?”

“Everything. Trust me, you need new accommodation.”

“And a change of clothes. I think I have camel saliva on my shirt.”

“It’s camel something, that’s for sure. I’d offer to lend you a clean shirt, but we definitely don’t have anything in your size. Or style.”

“And I’m all about style,” he mused.

“Oh, look, you have a sense of humor. So you’re not a stick-in-the-mud after all.”

“Who said I’m a stick-in-the-mud?”

“Nobody.” I revved the engine, and the truck hurtled toward a four-way intersection.

One of the great things about old Daisy was that her engine was loud enough to drown out conversation at any speed over forty kilometers an hour. I pushed us to fifty. The truck’s frame shuddered with the effort, smothering any risk that Dolittle might attempt to pursue the topic.

“And we’re here.” I veered into the Beaver’s parking lot and pumped the brakes a little too enthusiastically.

Daisy jolted to a convulsing halt. Dolittle snapped forward, the tattered seatbelt only catching him after his head was halfway to the windscreen.

“Oops.”

“I thought you said you could drive this… relic,” he gritted out, giving me his narrow-eyed side glance.

“I can, and I did. You’re welcome. It’s not my fault the seatbelts don’t work very well.”

Another long-suffering sigh.

Dolittle wrestled with the door handle, then hopped out. I hurried around the truck to make sure he didn’t trip over his crutches. I didn’t want to be known as the woman who killed the town vet.

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