Page 135 of Tasty Cherry

“We do.”

“Excellent. Get me a list of names in the next couple of days. And forgive me if I email you at two a.m. I won’t be expecting a prompt reply. Sometimes I have to look outside to know if it’s afternoon or the middle of the night.”

“I understand,” I tell her. I hesitate, then say, “Should I file relationship paperwork for me and Mila?”

“Already done,” she says. “Jessie will have your official report of a relationship to sign tomorrow morning when she reinstates your ID. I assumed you wanted that.”

“Yes,” we both say simultaneously.

She laughs. “I figured.”

A small, jagged cry comes through the phone. “That’s my cue,” Havannah says. “I’ll see you all real soon.”

The phone goes dark.

I draw Mila close. “It worked out.”

“Except for Raya. What got into her?”

I shake my head. “I feel like she never got over me being hired over her being promoted. It’s why we should really look at who we have before we replace her. Be sure.”

“She went off the rails.”

“I think she had to work to stay on them in the first place.”

Mila rests her head on my shoulder. “What will happen to her?”

“She’ll go work somewhere else. Terrorize some other staff.”

“But you won’t give her a reference.”

“Hell, no.”

I draw her close against me as the sun peeks through the evergreens, its light breaking apart in a starburst.

I live in the most perfect place, working a job I love.

And with Mila here, this completes the picture I always imagined.

43

MILA

Two months later.

The night before Christmas.

The chorus of donkey laughter keeps all of us awake.

It’s dim in the barn other than a glow of light over Tinsel’s pen. She’s the last of the pregnant donkeys to give birth, and all the interns are out in the barn, other than Ilsa, who had the good sense to leave town and parents who bought her a ticket.

“Well, this isn’t how I expected to spend the night,” Brooklyn says, shifting on the blanket she’s spread over a mound of hay.

“We knew this day was coming,” Owen says.

“But Christmas Eve?” Brooklyn throws an arm over her forehead. “Is it my turn to sleep?”

I stand up to check on Tinsel. Only a small part of the white amniotic sac is visible. She’s got a ways to go. We’re experts, having sat through three miniature donkey births already.