“It’s a baby rabbit,” he gasped, holding the filthy bundle to his chest, unwrapping it enough for Vi to see the brown fur of the tiny creature. “It’s hurt,” Eric said, voice cracking. “I think… I think it might be dead.”
Eric was always saving animals: stray cats, a woodchuck rescued from the jaws of a dog, countless mice and rats from Gran’s experiments in the basement—rodents too old to run the mazes, to be conditioned by treats and little electric jolts. Eric felt bad for the animals in the basement and had even freed one—Big White Rat, who Gran thought had managed to escape on his own and now lived in the walls of their house and made appearances from time to time, but could never be caught.
Eric’s bedroom had been turned into a crazy zoo full of aquariums and metal cages. He had a whole city of plastic tubes connecting Habitrail cages full of mice running on wheels, building nests with cardboard and newspaper. His room always smelled like cedar shavings, alfalfa, and pee. Gran not only put up with Eric’s bedroom zoo but seemed pleased by it, proud even. “You have a way with animals,” she would say, smiling at him. “A gentleness and kindness they pick up on.”
He knew everything about animals: their Latin names, how they were all ordered by family, genus, species. His hero was Charles Darwin, and Eric said he wanted to grow up and travel around the world studying animals just like Darwin had.
Vi leaped down off the porch steps. “Let’s see,” she said.
“Is Gran here?” he asked hopefully. Even though she was a human doctor (not even a regular doctor, a psychiatrist), Gran was a miracle worker with hurt animals. She could mend broken bones, do stitches, even minor surgery. She also knew when an animal couldn’t be saved and was quick to put it out of its misery with a tiny injection or a rag soaked in chloroform.
“No. She had to go to the Inn.”
Vi lifted the folds of the red shirt, put her hand on the rabbit. It gave a twitch when she touched it. She couldn’t tell where the blood on the T-shirt was coming from, but it seemed like a lot for such a tiny body. She looked from the rabbit to her brother’s worried face.
“Old Mac killed the mama. Got her with his twenty-two. He shot at this guy too, but then it ran into the bushes, and I grabbed him.” He bit his lip, more tears sliding down his cheeks. “Mac’s probably on his way here right now to finish the job.” He swiveled his head around, looking down the driveway, out across the road, at the massive front lawn and gardens that surrounded the Hillside Inn. And sure enough, Mac was heading their way: a stooped scarecrow of a man in a wide-brimmed hat and tan work pants, carrying a rifle. Why Gran would ever let the caretaker at a lunatic hospital walk around with a loaded gun was beyond Vi, but as Gran was fond of pointing out, the Inn was not like any other hospital anywhere.
“What we’re doing here,” Gran always said, “is revolutionary.” And as Vi watched Old Mac, an ex-patient himself, stalking toward them, she thought, Revolutionary? as her heart hammered and all the spit in her mouth dried up.
“Take the rabbit into the kitchen,” Vi ordered her brother. “Go!”
“What about Mac?” he asked, swallowing hard, eyes wild.
“I’ll take care of Mac. Don’t worry.”
Eric rewrapped the baby rabbit and ran up the porch steps, flung open the front door, and hurried inside.
Vi stood waiting, hands on her hips, watching Old Mac get closer, adjusting the gun in his hands, his jaw working like he was chewing something tough.
“Help you, Mr. MacDermot, sir?” she said when he was close enough to hear.
“Those rabbits are destroying the entire vegetable garden. No more spinach or lettuce left,” he said. He spoke slowly, with a slight slur, like the words were thick and heavy in his mouth. Medication, Vi thought. Most of the patients at the Inn were on medication. It could make them move and walk funny, have trouble talking.
Mac was a tall man with a weathered face and icy blue eyes. He licked his lips constantly so they were always chapped and raw-looking. “T-t-tell your brother to bring that animal out here. It don’t belong in the house.”
He took a step forward. Vi held her ground, standing right in the middle of the flagstone walkway to the house, her own roadblock.
She was thirteen years old, tall for her age, but still not even up to this man’s shoulders. Gran was always telling her not to slouch, to stand tall and proud, and that’s what she did now.
“Mr. MacDermot, I’m sure if you talk to my grandmother, she’ll tell you it’s okay for animals to be in the house. My brother brings home plenty, and Gran encourages it.”
“Does she now?”
“You go ask her yourself. Or, if you like, I can go in and call over to the Inn and ask her to come home, but I hear she’s real busy so she might not be too happy about that.”
He frowned at her, ran his pasty tongue over his dry lips, clenched his hands around the rifle. “She’ll hear about this,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” Vi said, smiling as big as she could, like the silly smiley face on the Have a Nice Day mug Gran drank out of sometimes—a gift from one of her patients.
“It ain’t right,” he said, turning to leave. “Keeping a wild thing captive.” Old Mac shuffled back down the driveway, muttering to himself, cradling the gun.
Vi went inside, her bare feet cold against the tiled floor of the front hall. She bolted the door, just in case. She let her eyes adjust to the darkness, took in the walnut-paneled walls, the french doors to the right that led into the parlor and the huge tiled fireplace, the curved staircase to the left. The house smelled of dust, old books, lemon furniture polish.
She heard soft mumbling coming from the kitchen. Sometimes Eric had conversations with his animals, made them talk back in different voices. He was really good at voices. Vi thought that maybe when he grew up he’d go to work doing voices for cartoons or Sesame Street or something. He could do a perfect Bugs Bunny: “What’s up, doc?”
“Eric?” she called. “You in the kitchen?”
“Yeah,” he snuffled. Then she heard a squeaky rabbit voice say, “So scared.”
Vi hurried down the hall.
Sunlight streamed through the window over the sink. The Crock-Pot hissed on the counter—they were having sloppy joes for dinner and the kitchen was full of the smell of spicy, meaty tomato sauce. Gran had made Jell-O parfaits for dessert—they were chilling in the fridge.
Eric was still cradling the bunny in his shirt.
Vi cleared everything off the table, pulled the sunflower tablecloth off, and laid down a clean dish towel. “Put him down here and let’s take a look,” she said.
“Save him, Vi,” Eric said as he set the rabbit on the table. “Please.”
Vi touched the rabbit carefully. She turned it over and gave it a quick exam. It didn’t look like the gunshot had hit any organs, just grazed the outside of its left haunch. The rabbit was holding very still but breathing very fast. “I think it’s in shock,” Vi said.
“Is that bad?” Eric asked.
She bit her lip. “Sometimes, when you’re in shock, your heart can stop.”
“Don’t let that happen,” Eric whimpered.
“I know what to do,” Vi said, spinning away from her bare-chested brother. She ran back down the hall, to the enclosed porch that Gran called the sunroom. It was where they played games and did artwork and stored weird stuff that didn’t belong anywhere else. It was also where Gran made her gin.
In the corner of the room, Gran’s still was set up on a heavy table: a crazy contraption of copper and glass tubes, flasks, and Bunsen burners. Gran was on a never-ending quest to distill the perfect batch of gin. One of the burners was on, and the still bubbled gently. The air smelled tangy and medicinal.