“Oh,” he said, just as the microwave beeped again. He pulled out the bowl of soup and brought it quickly over to the counter, dropping it rather than putting it down. “Hot,” he said, shaking out his hands. “We might need to wait a sec before giving it to Bert.” He ran his hand over the sticker quickly, a small smile appearing on his face. “It’s . . . A reader of mine makes them. He sent one to me, and I liked it, so I stuck it on. I guess I was hoping it would give me some inspiration, or something.”
I nodded, like this was normal, to hear someone my age talking about their readers. “So what is it?”
“Oh,” Clark said, and adjusted his glasses quickly. He tilted his head slightly to the side, like he was trying to figure something out. “You’re not . . . I assume you haven’t read them.”
I shook my head. “I don’t really read, you know, books.” Clark’s eyebrows flew up, and it was like he took a step back from me, even though I was pretty sure his feet didn’t actually move. “I know how to read,” I said, seeing the alarm in his expression. “I just don’t love fiction. You know, novels.”
“If you don’t love fiction novels,” Clark said, and even though I tried to fight it, I could feel a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth, “what do you read?” He shook his head, and it was like I could practically feel how baffled he was. “Wait, I’m sorry, but how do you not read books? Like—what do you do on planes?”
“I study,” I said with a shrug. “Or watch movies.”
Clark blinked at me. “I just . . . I’ve never met anyone who didn’t read before,” he said.
“Okay,” I said, starting to get annoyed. “I read. I have a 4.0.” He was still just staring at me, so I explained. “That’s a thing we have in high schools with more than two people. It’s called a grade point average. . . .”
“Touché,” Clark said, and though he still looked rattled, he was smiling. “Okay. So if you haven’t read my books . . . or, um, any books . . .” I rolled my eyes at that, even as I was trying not to smile. “It’s showing the main character from the first two books, Tamsin. And these are the crows of Castleroy.”
“Oh,” I said, nodding, like that had explained anything. I looked down at it for a moment, wondering what that must be like—to create something that someone liked so much, they made laptop stickers for you.
Clark dipped a finger into the soup and nodded at me as he tasted it. “It’s cool enough, I think.” Then he made a face. “And not really very good.”
“Does it need some Carolina Reapers?” I asked, surprising myself—and Clark, too, judging by the expression on his face.
“Couldn’t hurt,” he said, as I grabbed my phone and he led the way back into the laundry room.
Five minutes later I looked up at Clark over Bertie’s head. “I think it’s working,” I said in a half whisper, like the dog could understand me.
Clark met my eye and nodded, and then I looked back at the dog. When we’d put the soup in front of him, he had opened one eye and sniffed toward it, but then had closed his eyes and put his head down again, which had made me get really, really scared. Bertie always lunged for his food bowl when I brought him home. To see him ignoring food was pretty much the only indication I needed of how sick this dog was. Fear was making my stomach clench as I realized we really might need to bring him to the emergency vet. But before I could say anything, Clark, to my surprise, had stroked Bertie’s head while moving the bowl closer, so that it was right under his nose. “Hey, bud,” he said softly. “Look, it’s people food.”
There was a pause, in which I held my breath, worried that this was the turn that the poison control lady had warned us about. But then Bertie raised his head slightly, nose twitching. He sniffed at the soup for a few more seconds before starting to eat—cautiously at first, but then with more appetite, and I finally let myself breathe again.
“I think you’re right,” Clark said, as Bertie finished the bowl, nudging it around with his nose, trying to get more. “Should I heat up the rest?”
“Maybe give it a second.” Bertie looked up at me, and I reached forward to scratch his ears. “You did so good,” I said, leaning closer to him. “Good—”
But I didn’t get to finish that thought, because right then Bertie opened his mouth and threw up chicken soup—and chocolate—all over me.
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