Dear Rosie, (Love Letters #2)

Raw chicken is bad, right?

I’m pretty sure it’s bad.

I mean, he’s a cat, but?—

Charles walks a few feet and throws up a third time.

It’s already making him sick!

Panic swallows me.

“It’s okay. It’s okay,” I chant. “I got you. It’s okay.”

It’s so not okay. I have no idea what to do.

I grab my phone off the table.

It’s four p.m.

And that’s what, two in California?

I don’t know when Nathan’s speech is.

I can’t call him during that. What if his phone vibrating in his pocket distracts him?

My heart is galloping, and I try to focus.

Think!

I need help.

Need to get help.

I look at my phone.

I need togo tosomeone who can help.

I open the map app on my phone and search for emergency vets near me.

There’s one four minutes away.

I hit start on the directions, then shove my phone into my pocket.

“Come here, Charles.” I take a step toward him, putting my full weight on my sprained ankle without thinking.

It twinges.

It’s sore.

But it’s not horrible.

I take another step.

I can’t carry Charles and use crutches.

And I’d choose Charles every day.

I take another step around the little pile of vomit, then I bend and scoop him up off the ground.