Junior Healer: Day 78
Aug. 10th, 2011 10:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lb_leeTitle: Junior Healer: Day 78
Prompt: Work
Note: I feel up and down about my job. So I wrote this.
Junior Healer: Day 78
I was awoken by a gentle voice in my head and Bobcat nuzzling me. Good morning, M.D. You have work in half an hour.
I was on my feet, grabbing my clothes. “Thanks, Bobby.” Say what you will about alarm clocks; cats were better.
I pulled on my sneakers, wolfed a quick breakfast, and bolted out. I left my gloves behind; I would grab a proper pair from Scorch and Flame when I got there.
As far as decent medical care went, Scorch and Flame were the only game in town for the day people. It meant that they were doing well for themselves, but it also meant they always had work out the wazoo. The morning was still newborn, but the burnout clearing in front of the Paradox’s home that played as waiting area already had a few people in line.
I dashed by them, holding up the wooden tablet that marked me as junior healer, and came inside. Scorch and Flame were already at work, with Flame stitching up the injury of a child and Scorch marking their file.
“Good morning,” Flame greeted, then went back to what she was doing.
“Morning. Business already mounting up, huh?”
“It is,” Scorch agreed, and shoved the wooden frame with the mess of threads in it. “Here, lass, take notes.”
I nodded, took the impromptu chart and spool of thread from him, and hastily started tying knots and filling in the web, while Scorch gave me gentle corrections or pointers. Our records weren’t great, with resources so haphazard, but at least they were organized. As the reptiles’ junior healer, I didn’t just help them with the squishy parts of the business; mostly, I did a lot of writing and marking of files. I was still learning the pidgin shorthand, and Scorch and Flame wanted to make sure I had it down before I did anything important on my own.
Their business tended to run pretty loosely, with the catastrophically injured coming first, then a first-come-first-serve basis. The concept of appointments wasn’t unheard of, but fairly rare unless births were involved. Thankfully, this morning seemed to be mostly minor injuries.
“Your gear is sterile,” Flame informed me as she cut the end of the suture thread. “Swab up, we’re going to need you.”
“You’re the boss.” I finished the chart, shoved it in the pile of ‘done today,’ and dashed to pull on my gloves and apron. The apron wasn’t necessary, but it’d been instituted after coming home covered in unspeakably unpleasant fluids too many times.
The morning passed in a blur of activity. An elderly tentacled being complaining of swollen, aching limbs, which was apparently common in its species and easily treated, but the local pharmacist/alchemist/herbalist wouldn’t cough up the required stimulant unless Flame or Scorch said it was legit (it was). Next a heavy-set laborer who’d taken a blow to the head while helping build a bridge and wanted to make sure nothing was badly wrong (there wasn’t). Then Trumpet-Sound, who had had a broken leg set a couple months earlier and was now ready to have the cast taken off. Just more of the usual, garden-variety ailments that Scorch and Flame dealt with day in day out. I marked charts, took payment in flour, jerky, and scrip, and chiseled through the heavy plaster-equivalent while Flame spoke soothingly to distract Trumpet-Sound, who wasn’t particularly eager to have a junior hammering so close to her leg, even if I was the most anatomically suited for it.
Scorch took a break in mid-morning—he’d been up at night to help an emergency birthing, Flame explained. She and I handled the case load without too much trouble—more bruises, bashes, and cuts, an alarmed parent whose child couldn’t keep food down, an amputee with pain in their stump.
Some of the patients were cranky, from pain or just general ill temper, but most were polite. They knew Scorch and Flame were the best doctors in town, and whatever the cultural differences, one thing was almost unanimously understood: you don’t tick off the person with power over your health. Especially if they have big pointy teeth.
In late morning, coming close to noon, however, I heard Flame sigh steam. Never a good sign, in a fire-breather.
“Oh no,” she signed. “It’s Ram-Heart.”
“Who?” I asked, tossing my gloves in the boiling vat. I’d hang them up to dry and change into the other ones.
“I curse the day I became healer whenever he shows up. He pays well, but he’s a cantankerous piece of fodder.”
I didn’t have time to ask for more explanation; the guy walked in, and Flame had to put on her professional face.
While she took details, I chased down his chart. It took me a moment to find it (it was wedged in the back), and I came in to see him signing, “I see your junior healer isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
I recognized Ram-Heart by sight, though I’d never formally met him. He was a common showing at the markets, a rotund reptile with a walrus-like face that made him appear to constantly frown.
“My healer’s a she,” Flame corrected, then raised her wing-hands so I could see her sign, “foot pain, difficulty walking.”
“I’m still waiting for you to do something about it,” Ram-Heart signed. “You’re supposed to be the best, but I haven’t been impressed so far.”
“We’ll do the best we can,” Flame signed gently, but with what I suspected was a muted tone of aggravation.
Ram-Heart eyed me suspiciously. His eyes rolled. Trying to conceal my irritation, I nodded and pulled from the ever-present spool of thread.
Apparently Ram-Heart came in here often. His chart had multiple frames, and the last few citations were all within the past few weeks, all for the same thing. Apparently he’d been having issues with his feet for a while, and the dragons hadn’t been able to figure out the problem.
Flame continued reciting the symptoms as Ram-Heart sat down and showed his four, stumpy feet. “Surface not warm to the touch, no signs of ulceration or trauma, but heavy callusing…”
All of this had been written in previous records, but I obediently marked it down.
“Has nothing changed since the last time?” Flame inquired. “I was hoping Cobbler’s modifications would help ease the pressure off—we’ve had good results in the past.”
“There’s no point. I’m positive it’s foot worms.”
I thought I heard a hint of long-suffering in her voice, as though this were an old argument. “Ram-Heart, we’ve checked you numerous times. We’ve found no signs of foot worms, and even so, the tea we gave you before would have cleared them out.”
“Perhaps if you gave me another run, that’d take care of it.”
I was sure of it now; Flame’s voice was definitely betraying some aggravation. “Ram-Heart, that tea is not meant for long-term use. If it hasn’t worked by now, that’s the end of it. Cobbler’s work made no change whatsoever?”
“That thief overcharged me, and I doubt it’d help.”
Flame froze for a moment, then raised her head from Ram-Heart’s feet. “You didn’t get the modifications.”
I buried my face in the chart. Most Treehouse denizens couldn’t read facial expressions on anatomy unlike their own, but you could never tell. Even if Ram-Heart didn’t recognize it, Flame would’ve through familiarity, and she had pounded into me that junior healers needed to keep their nonverbal mockery to themselves.
“The work is prohibitively expensive,” Ram-Heart blustered. “And I have no idea whether it’ll work or not! Why can’t we use Craft-Wear’s work instead?”
Faint wisps of steam were starting to emanate from between Flame’s teeth. “I understand that Cobbler is expensive,” she said, with signs of strained patience, “but its work is professional. Craft-Wear’s work is good enough for casual use, but…”
“This is—” Ram-Heart used a sign I didn’t recognize, but was obviously not pleasant. “I’m spending good money for your service, you witch doctor, and—”
Flame lost her temper. “You aren’t following our service!” She signed, steam puffing from her mouth in gouts. “There is precious little help we can give you when you won’t follow our advice, and haggling over a lousy three scrip when you’re in such pain and can afford the expense—”
Ram-Heart puffed up like a bullfrog. “Don’t you disrespect me, you hack!” He signed. “I know my own body more than you—”
“If you knew the answer, you wouldn’t be coming to me, you bilious fool!” I’d never seen someone roar in sign language before. For a moment, I worried she’d lose all patience entirely and spit fire, but she didn’t, only steamed. “And I don’t do work for those who disrespect me in my own home! Get out.”
“You can’t do that!”
“Junior!” Flame roared. “Escort Ram-Heart out of here and tell our next patient I will see them now.”
“Yes, healer!” I signed eagerly. Even if I hadn’t wanted Ram-Heart out of here as badly as she did, the sight of my boss losing her temper was deeply satisfying.
Ram-Heart huffed even larger, taller than me by a good four inches. “Is this how it is then? You deny me service after waiting all morning outside while your husband doesn’t even have the decency to come down?”
“Scorch was up all night helping someone give birth, and you can keep your money,” Flame said. She was no longer steaming; apparently the idea that she’d be getting rid of this guy soon had put her in better temper. “And our junior healer happens to be capable of electrically paralyzing someone, so I would advise you follow her escort.”
I gave him my best junior healer grin. “Now, sir,” I said in my most formal Pidgin Sign, “if you will come this way…”
Ram-Heart huffed and puffed, and for a moment I worried I actually would have to zap him as motivation. But then he left on his own steam. I watched him go with amusement, then went into the waiting room and signed to the next person in line, “Flame will see you now.”
I came back and found Flame in the back, scrubbing herself down again.
“You know I can’t actually electrically paralyze someone with any degree of efficiency, right?” I signed.
“You would’ve at least been able to give him an unpleasant shock; that would’ve been good enough for me,” Flame said. She seemed in surprisingly good spirits, now that he was gone. “Scorch will have words with me over isolating a customer as well paying as him, but he’s been a thorn in our feet since he ever walked in here. I am singularly glad to be rid of his business (and his presence!) for good.”
“What was that signed Ram-Heart called you earlier?” I asked, and tried to approximate what I thought I’d seen. “I didn’t recognize it.”
“Hmm. No, that’s not a surprise; it’s not used so often. It means…” she thought for a moment. “It’s a person who makes questionable business decisions uniting themselves with others of inferior product, sacrificing the patient’s well-being in the name of money. He was implying first that Cobbler makes poor product, secondly that we have a business deal with it that insures it gets all our business in exchange for a cut of the profits, and finally, that we’re overcharging him for the pure meanness of it. Does that make sense?”
I nodded. “I think in English, that’d be ‘racketeer.’”
“Hrrrhktrrrrr,” Flame said, attempting to emulate my pronunciation. “I see. Anyway, who’s next? I had to come in here and calm down for a moment before I went out again.”
“You’re lucky. It’s Web-Soft; she’s the last of them for the moment.”
“Oh, fresh meat and blood,” Flame signed with relief. “She’s always a dear.”
She was. After Ram-Heart’s posturing, Web-Soft was a relief. She was always patient with waiting, and seemed to think of Flame and Scorch (and me) highly. She’d been having an inflammation, and like Ram-Heart, we hadn’t been able to get down to the source of it, but she seemed glad about the work we were doing, and had a new idea that it might be some kind of contact allergy. Flame agreed that this could certainly be the case, and worked up a new prescription for the pharmacist to try. Afterward, she thanked us both sincerely, gave us a few flowers along with her payment, and wished us a good day.
“I adore Web-Soft,” Flame said later as she finished up the chart, while I put the flowers in a pool of water by the stacks of charts. “It’s people like her that make me glad to be a healer.”
I nodded and took advantage of the lull in patients to start putting away charts. “Despite all the aggravation, I have to admit, I like it here.”
Flame paused at her work with the thread. “Is that so?”
I nodded. “Sure. You and Scorch treat me well, the work is meaningful. I like it. The wages aren’t great, but between me, Bobby, and what Raige pulls, we do all right.”
“Well,” Flame said. “You work very hard. And you are doing well at this work. Normally, our junior healers are live-in; we pay them in room and board until they’ve gotten enough skills to become healers proper. Our situation with you is actually a bit unorthodox—but you have a family you live with, so it’s a little different.”
“Family?” I hadn’t thought of it that way before, but it made me smile. “Yeah. Family.”
“We tried to take Thomas on for a little while, but he didn’t have the temperament. You seem to be working out well so far; if you ever decide to come into a more permanent situation with us, we would welcome you into our practice.”
I froze with a pile of charts in my arms. “Seriously?”
Flame nodded. “Scorch and I have discussed it. You work hard, you’re a quick study, you’re flexible, and you seem to have an honest appreciation of the work involved. We haven’t had a junior healer since our last died, but we are glad you joined.”
I couldn’t stop grinning. “Thanks. I’m—I’m glad Thomas told me you needed someone. My current situation is a little up in the air right now, but…”
“We understand. It’s Treehouse; everything’s always in flux. Just let us know when you can.”
We didn’t have time to say anything more about it; there was a sudden calamity as a family rushed in a member who’d crashed into a tree, and Flame and I had to go straight to business. The rest of the day passed in a mad rush of stitching, bandaging, writing off prescriptions to the pharmacist, and Flame and Scorch giving me lessons in anatomical differences and the use of various herbs, minerals, and insects.
I came home exhausted, crammed with new information, and spattered in something orange that I couldn’t remember the source of. Raige saw my face and asked, “What happened?”
I kept grinning. “I love my job,” I said.
And I flopped into bed and slept for two hours.
Prompt: Work
Note: I feel up and down about my job. So I wrote this.
Junior Healer: Day 78
I was awoken by a gentle voice in my head and Bobcat nuzzling me. Good morning, M.D. You have work in half an hour.
I was on my feet, grabbing my clothes. “Thanks, Bobby.” Say what you will about alarm clocks; cats were better.
I pulled on my sneakers, wolfed a quick breakfast, and bolted out. I left my gloves behind; I would grab a proper pair from Scorch and Flame when I got there.
As far as decent medical care went, Scorch and Flame were the only game in town for the day people. It meant that they were doing well for themselves, but it also meant they always had work out the wazoo. The morning was still newborn, but the burnout clearing in front of the Paradox’s home that played as waiting area already had a few people in line.
I dashed by them, holding up the wooden tablet that marked me as junior healer, and came inside. Scorch and Flame were already at work, with Flame stitching up the injury of a child and Scorch marking their file.
“Good morning,” Flame greeted, then went back to what she was doing.
“Morning. Business already mounting up, huh?”
“It is,” Scorch agreed, and shoved the wooden frame with the mess of threads in it. “Here, lass, take notes.”
I nodded, took the impromptu chart and spool of thread from him, and hastily started tying knots and filling in the web, while Scorch gave me gentle corrections or pointers. Our records weren’t great, with resources so haphazard, but at least they were organized. As the reptiles’ junior healer, I didn’t just help them with the squishy parts of the business; mostly, I did a lot of writing and marking of files. I was still learning the pidgin shorthand, and Scorch and Flame wanted to make sure I had it down before I did anything important on my own.
Their business tended to run pretty loosely, with the catastrophically injured coming first, then a first-come-first-serve basis. The concept of appointments wasn’t unheard of, but fairly rare unless births were involved. Thankfully, this morning seemed to be mostly minor injuries.
“Your gear is sterile,” Flame informed me as she cut the end of the suture thread. “Swab up, we’re going to need you.”
“You’re the boss.” I finished the chart, shoved it in the pile of ‘done today,’ and dashed to pull on my gloves and apron. The apron wasn’t necessary, but it’d been instituted after coming home covered in unspeakably unpleasant fluids too many times.
The morning passed in a blur of activity. An elderly tentacled being complaining of swollen, aching limbs, which was apparently common in its species and easily treated, but the local pharmacist/alchemist/herbalist wouldn’t cough up the required stimulant unless Flame or Scorch said it was legit (it was). Next a heavy-set laborer who’d taken a blow to the head while helping build a bridge and wanted to make sure nothing was badly wrong (there wasn’t). Then Trumpet-Sound, who had had a broken leg set a couple months earlier and was now ready to have the cast taken off. Just more of the usual, garden-variety ailments that Scorch and Flame dealt with day in day out. I marked charts, took payment in flour, jerky, and scrip, and chiseled through the heavy plaster-equivalent while Flame spoke soothingly to distract Trumpet-Sound, who wasn’t particularly eager to have a junior hammering so close to her leg, even if I was the most anatomically suited for it.
Scorch took a break in mid-morning—he’d been up at night to help an emergency birthing, Flame explained. She and I handled the case load without too much trouble—more bruises, bashes, and cuts, an alarmed parent whose child couldn’t keep food down, an amputee with pain in their stump.
Some of the patients were cranky, from pain or just general ill temper, but most were polite. They knew Scorch and Flame were the best doctors in town, and whatever the cultural differences, one thing was almost unanimously understood: you don’t tick off the person with power over your health. Especially if they have big pointy teeth.
In late morning, coming close to noon, however, I heard Flame sigh steam. Never a good sign, in a fire-breather.
“Oh no,” she signed. “It’s Ram-Heart.”
“Who?” I asked, tossing my gloves in the boiling vat. I’d hang them up to dry and change into the other ones.
“I curse the day I became healer whenever he shows up. He pays well, but he’s a cantankerous piece of fodder.”
I didn’t have time to ask for more explanation; the guy walked in, and Flame had to put on her professional face.
While she took details, I chased down his chart. It took me a moment to find it (it was wedged in the back), and I came in to see him signing, “I see your junior healer isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
I recognized Ram-Heart by sight, though I’d never formally met him. He was a common showing at the markets, a rotund reptile with a walrus-like face that made him appear to constantly frown.
“My healer’s a she,” Flame corrected, then raised her wing-hands so I could see her sign, “foot pain, difficulty walking.”
“I’m still waiting for you to do something about it,” Ram-Heart signed. “You’re supposed to be the best, but I haven’t been impressed so far.”
“We’ll do the best we can,” Flame signed gently, but with what I suspected was a muted tone of aggravation.
Ram-Heart eyed me suspiciously. His eyes rolled. Trying to conceal my irritation, I nodded and pulled from the ever-present spool of thread.
Apparently Ram-Heart came in here often. His chart had multiple frames, and the last few citations were all within the past few weeks, all for the same thing. Apparently he’d been having issues with his feet for a while, and the dragons hadn’t been able to figure out the problem.
Flame continued reciting the symptoms as Ram-Heart sat down and showed his four, stumpy feet. “Surface not warm to the touch, no signs of ulceration or trauma, but heavy callusing…”
All of this had been written in previous records, but I obediently marked it down.
“Has nothing changed since the last time?” Flame inquired. “I was hoping Cobbler’s modifications would help ease the pressure off—we’ve had good results in the past.”
“There’s no point. I’m positive it’s foot worms.”
I thought I heard a hint of long-suffering in her voice, as though this were an old argument. “Ram-Heart, we’ve checked you numerous times. We’ve found no signs of foot worms, and even so, the tea we gave you before would have cleared them out.”
“Perhaps if you gave me another run, that’d take care of it.”
I was sure of it now; Flame’s voice was definitely betraying some aggravation. “Ram-Heart, that tea is not meant for long-term use. If it hasn’t worked by now, that’s the end of it. Cobbler’s work made no change whatsoever?”
“That thief overcharged me, and I doubt it’d help.”
Flame froze for a moment, then raised her head from Ram-Heart’s feet. “You didn’t get the modifications.”
I buried my face in the chart. Most Treehouse denizens couldn’t read facial expressions on anatomy unlike their own, but you could never tell. Even if Ram-Heart didn’t recognize it, Flame would’ve through familiarity, and she had pounded into me that junior healers needed to keep their nonverbal mockery to themselves.
“The work is prohibitively expensive,” Ram-Heart blustered. “And I have no idea whether it’ll work or not! Why can’t we use Craft-Wear’s work instead?”
Faint wisps of steam were starting to emanate from between Flame’s teeth. “I understand that Cobbler is expensive,” she said, with signs of strained patience, “but its work is professional. Craft-Wear’s work is good enough for casual use, but…”
“This is—” Ram-Heart used a sign I didn’t recognize, but was obviously not pleasant. “I’m spending good money for your service, you witch doctor, and—”
Flame lost her temper. “You aren’t following our service!” She signed, steam puffing from her mouth in gouts. “There is precious little help we can give you when you won’t follow our advice, and haggling over a lousy three scrip when you’re in such pain and can afford the expense—”
Ram-Heart puffed up like a bullfrog. “Don’t you disrespect me, you hack!” He signed. “I know my own body more than you—”
“If you knew the answer, you wouldn’t be coming to me, you bilious fool!” I’d never seen someone roar in sign language before. For a moment, I worried she’d lose all patience entirely and spit fire, but she didn’t, only steamed. “And I don’t do work for those who disrespect me in my own home! Get out.”
“You can’t do that!”
“Junior!” Flame roared. “Escort Ram-Heart out of here and tell our next patient I will see them now.”
“Yes, healer!” I signed eagerly. Even if I hadn’t wanted Ram-Heart out of here as badly as she did, the sight of my boss losing her temper was deeply satisfying.
Ram-Heart huffed even larger, taller than me by a good four inches. “Is this how it is then? You deny me service after waiting all morning outside while your husband doesn’t even have the decency to come down?”
“Scorch was up all night helping someone give birth, and you can keep your money,” Flame said. She was no longer steaming; apparently the idea that she’d be getting rid of this guy soon had put her in better temper. “And our junior healer happens to be capable of electrically paralyzing someone, so I would advise you follow her escort.”
I gave him my best junior healer grin. “Now, sir,” I said in my most formal Pidgin Sign, “if you will come this way…”
Ram-Heart huffed and puffed, and for a moment I worried I actually would have to zap him as motivation. But then he left on his own steam. I watched him go with amusement, then went into the waiting room and signed to the next person in line, “Flame will see you now.”
I came back and found Flame in the back, scrubbing herself down again.
“You know I can’t actually electrically paralyze someone with any degree of efficiency, right?” I signed.
“You would’ve at least been able to give him an unpleasant shock; that would’ve been good enough for me,” Flame said. She seemed in surprisingly good spirits, now that he was gone. “Scorch will have words with me over isolating a customer as well paying as him, but he’s been a thorn in our feet since he ever walked in here. I am singularly glad to be rid of his business (and his presence!) for good.”
“What was that signed Ram-Heart called you earlier?” I asked, and tried to approximate what I thought I’d seen. “I didn’t recognize it.”
“Hmm. No, that’s not a surprise; it’s not used so often. It means…” she thought for a moment. “It’s a person who makes questionable business decisions uniting themselves with others of inferior product, sacrificing the patient’s well-being in the name of money. He was implying first that Cobbler makes poor product, secondly that we have a business deal with it that insures it gets all our business in exchange for a cut of the profits, and finally, that we’re overcharging him for the pure meanness of it. Does that make sense?”
I nodded. “I think in English, that’d be ‘racketeer.’”
“Hrrrhktrrrrr,” Flame said, attempting to emulate my pronunciation. “I see. Anyway, who’s next? I had to come in here and calm down for a moment before I went out again.”
“You’re lucky. It’s Web-Soft; she’s the last of them for the moment.”
“Oh, fresh meat and blood,” Flame signed with relief. “She’s always a dear.”
She was. After Ram-Heart’s posturing, Web-Soft was a relief. She was always patient with waiting, and seemed to think of Flame and Scorch (and me) highly. She’d been having an inflammation, and like Ram-Heart, we hadn’t been able to get down to the source of it, but she seemed glad about the work we were doing, and had a new idea that it might be some kind of contact allergy. Flame agreed that this could certainly be the case, and worked up a new prescription for the pharmacist to try. Afterward, she thanked us both sincerely, gave us a few flowers along with her payment, and wished us a good day.
“I adore Web-Soft,” Flame said later as she finished up the chart, while I put the flowers in a pool of water by the stacks of charts. “It’s people like her that make me glad to be a healer.”
I nodded and took advantage of the lull in patients to start putting away charts. “Despite all the aggravation, I have to admit, I like it here.”
Flame paused at her work with the thread. “Is that so?”
I nodded. “Sure. You and Scorch treat me well, the work is meaningful. I like it. The wages aren’t great, but between me, Bobby, and what Raige pulls, we do all right.”
“Well,” Flame said. “You work very hard. And you are doing well at this work. Normally, our junior healers are live-in; we pay them in room and board until they’ve gotten enough skills to become healers proper. Our situation with you is actually a bit unorthodox—but you have a family you live with, so it’s a little different.”
“Family?” I hadn’t thought of it that way before, but it made me smile. “Yeah. Family.”
“We tried to take Thomas on for a little while, but he didn’t have the temperament. You seem to be working out well so far; if you ever decide to come into a more permanent situation with us, we would welcome you into our practice.”
I froze with a pile of charts in my arms. “Seriously?”
Flame nodded. “Scorch and I have discussed it. You work hard, you’re a quick study, you’re flexible, and you seem to have an honest appreciation of the work involved. We haven’t had a junior healer since our last died, but we are glad you joined.”
I couldn’t stop grinning. “Thanks. I’m—I’m glad Thomas told me you needed someone. My current situation is a little up in the air right now, but…”
“We understand. It’s Treehouse; everything’s always in flux. Just let us know when you can.”
We didn’t have time to say anything more about it; there was a sudden calamity as a family rushed in a member who’d crashed into a tree, and Flame and I had to go straight to business. The rest of the day passed in a mad rush of stitching, bandaging, writing off prescriptions to the pharmacist, and Flame and Scorch giving me lessons in anatomical differences and the use of various herbs, minerals, and insects.
I came home exhausted, crammed with new information, and spattered in something orange that I couldn’t remember the source of. Raige saw my face and asked, “What happened?”
I kept grinning. “I love my job,” I said.
And I flopped into bed and slept for two hours.
no subject
Date: 2013-08-23 12:03 pm (UTC)