THURSDAY, 10:00 A.M., ANIMAL HOSPITAL

“As you can see, Pinky is a bit more than we bargained for,” said Jim as he let his six-foot-long Nile monitor out of an extra-large gym bag.

Wearing a pressed plaid button-down shirt and crisp Dockers, Jim was handling his pet reptile with yellow oven mitts. As soon as he set the big lizard down on the floor, the animal began to thrash about, whipping his tail left and right and extending his long reptilian tongue nearly a foot in every direction. His sharp claws raked across the tile floor. Despite his energy and size, he didn’t look healthy; his skin had peeled in many places, and his coloring looked off.

Many species of lizards make popular pets. Iguanas are probably the most popular of the larger lizards because they bond closely with their owners. Nile monitors, on the other hand, tend to be quite feisty and formidable creatures, and, in all honesty, they don’t make the best pets. They’re aggressive, strong, and not at all shy about using their powerful bite. In order to manage pet owners’ expectations about how their interactions will go with a Nile monitor as it gets older, I’ve been known to say, “If you’re going to bring home a Nile monitor, be sure to have a first aid kit at hand.”

I’d expected Pinky to be grumpy, but I hadn’t been prepared for him to be so big. Nile monitors can grow as long as seven feet, but I’d never seen one this big in captivity. Pinky was the size of a small alligator.

“I promise you,” Jim’s girlfriend, Becky, said, giggling nervously, “he wasn’t even half this size when we bought him.”

She backed away just as Pinky’s three-foot-long tail whipped around in her direction.

“He was just the cutest little thing running up and down my arm.” She made a flitting motion with her fingertips on her white cashmere cardigan.

Because this was my first introduction to Pinky, I stood back initially. His owners were sure to be more familiar with their reptile’s particular moods than I was, so I watched as Jim attempted to corner the animal and pick him up off the floor. He squatted down low and extended his oven-mitt-clad hands as he attempted to back Pinky against a wall. Pinky hissed and lunged away from him. When Jim tried again unsuccessfully, I buzzed Marnie to assist me. We needed all hands—and mitts—on deck with this one.

“We both had gargoyle geckos as first pets,” Becky explained. “I guess you could say we’re natural lizard lovers.” She smiled adoringly in Jim’s direction.

Though gargoyle geckos and Nile monitors are both in the lizard family, they’re worlds apart. Gargoyle geckos are found on the island of New Caledonia, near Australia. Nile monitors are found in Africa. In disposition, they’re even further removed. Geckos are gentle little lizards that I recommend as first pets for small children because they’re low maintenance and easygoing. Nile monitors are not at all beginner reptiles. They can be obstinate and sometimes dangerous, and they’re almost always big. They really don’t belong in a traditional home unless the owners are very experienced reptile handlers. I imagined Jim and Becky at their local pet store, unknowingly selecting Pinky from a tank of young Nile monitors.

“They didn’t look this large in the pictures,” she said, making conversation.

I guessed that Becky was referring to the colorful booklet pet stores often provide with purchase, titled something like “Your Nile Monitor and You.” I’d seen my share of those free handouts—full of glossy color photographs but light on relevant information. “Your Nile Monitor and You” probably didn’t mention the room-sized enclosure Jim and Becky would need once Pinky reached his full size, which they would need to outfit with branches for him to climb, large rocks on which he could rub off shedding skin, a shallow pool for bathing, climate control, and UV light exposure for ten to twelve hours a day. This reptile was high maintenance.

Jim finally managed to grab Pinky firmly behind the neck and wrangle him into his arms. Becky cooed, “Our baby.”

Except that Pinky could no longer be held like a baby. Jim was struggling to keep the large animal from wriggling out of his grip. Beads of sweat formed on his upper lip and at his hairline. Pinky whipped his tail and jerked his head from side to side.

“Can you, um, grasp the middle?” he asked me desperately.

Together, Jim and I carried Pinky over to the examination table just as Marnie entered the room with a large blanket. I secured Pinky by covering him in the blanket and rolling him up like a fifty-pound burrito.

“He’s a live one,” Marnie said under her breath. “Reminds me of Tybalt.”

“Let’s hope for a different outcome,” I whispered back.

Tybalt, a seven-foot-long iguana, had become a legend at the hospital the day he wriggled out of my arms and vaulted off the X-ray table, and—snap!—two entire feet of his bright green tail fell right off. The broken half skittered to the floor and slid under the examination table.

“Grab his body!” I’d screamed at Marnie. “I’ll get the tail!”

In general, lizards should be handled gently and held under the body when picked up. They should never be picked up by their tails because, as we’d just experienced, the tail can break off. More accurately, their tails don’t really break; they detach from the body. Referred to as “tail autonomy,” it’s a common defense mechanism for many lizards. If they feel especially threatened, they will distract a predator by detaching their tail. The separated tail thrashes and wiggles about, increasing the lizard’s chances of escaping to safety. I’d seen geckos perform this trick time and again, but never an iguana the size of Tybalt. Whereas the smaller gecko’s tail grows back fairly quickly, I feared it would be years before Tybalt’s grew back, if at all, and even then it would likely be an entirely different color from the rest of his body. I couldn’t help but think of one of Brett’s favorite childhood books, The Mixed-Up Chameleon by Eric Carle, in which a chameleon wishes to be like other animals in the zoo and ends up with the head of an elephant, the neck of a giraffe, and the tail of a fox. I could only guess what Tybalt might look like should his tail ever return.

“HE’S STARTING TO settle,” I said to Jim and Becky. “I’m going to remove the blanket now.” I readjusted my grip and carefully examined the areas of skin Pinky hadn’t shed yet. I noted that his skin was an orange-brown color, not the bright green it should have been. This color change could stem from a number of factors: inappropriate diet, the wrong environmental temperature, not enough UV light.

Whenever I examine an animal whose behavior or health status has changed abruptly, I ask its owners questions about any changes in the family, any recent moves or events that might have disrupted a regular routine. In veterinary school, students learn to look for the most obvious causes for a disorder before considering the more obscure possibilities. It’s called differential diagnosis—moving from one possible cause to another, taking into account all of the animal’s symptoms. The saying “When you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras” reminds us veterinarians not to discount the obvious when looking for the cause of a problem—although, as an exotic animal vet, I am inclined to think about zebras before horses.

“Has anything changed lately with his care?” I asked.

“He recently outgrew his tank,” Jim said, “so we converted the guest room.”

“Jim completely transformed it,” Becky said, beaming, “with peat moss and a bunch of plants from Lowe’s. He even bought one of those long metal tubs people plant tomatoes in. Pinky uses it as a bathtub.” I briefly imagined the guest room in my own house converted into a tropical wonderland. It sounded kind of magical, except—

“Except”—Jim sighed—“now that he’s out of his climate-controlled tank, we have to crank the central heating throughout the entire house to keep him warm enough. It’s like a sauna.”

Becky giggled again. “More like a hot yoga class.”

Just thinking about the heat seemed to elevate Jim’s body temperature. He wiped another bead of sweat from his upper lip.

When it comes to exotic pets—feathered, furry, or scaly—the temperature of their world is often critical, so providing the proper climate to help keep the animal healthy is paramount. Perhaps more than any other type of pet, reptiles have specific temperature needs and requirements. Most captive lizards require enclosures with a warm basking zone, often in the range of ninety to one hundred degrees. This often means adding supplemental heating elements such as heat bulbs and heating pads to enclosures when seasonal temperatures fall and removing them when they climb again. If Jim and Becky were turning up the household thermostat to match this level of heat, Pinky was probably comfortable, but they were likely roasting.

“And our heating bill is astronomical.”

Becky chimed in, “The heat we can get used to, but”—she looked over at Jim—“now that we no longer have a guest room, we’re not sure where to put my parents.”

“They’ll be visiting from Santa Fe for the holidays,” Jim explained.

“Well, then they’ll be used to the heat,” I joked. “Are your parents reptile lovers like you? New Mexico sure has its fair share of them.”

Becky and Jim exchanged looks of concern.

“Not really,” Becky said slowly. “They’re more like . . . cat people.”

“Ah,” I said, understanding. “They like animals that cuddle up on your lap?”

Becky nodded just as Pinky broke loose from the grip I had around his throat. I reached toward him, and he lunged at my hand—his way of warning me that he no longer wanted to be restrained, or probably held at all. “Well, if that’s the case,” I said, sizing up the frightened lizard, “then Pinky may come as a bit of a surprise. Have you considered putting them up in your nearest Comfort Inn?”

AFTER JIM AND Becky had left with Pinky and my general recommendation to give him a few more weeks to adjust to his new room, Marnie and I huddled in the hallway.

“How’s Luke today?” she asked.

“Quarantined. He officially has pinkeye.”

“Oh, no,” said Marnie, wincing in sympathy.

“Don’t feel too bad. He’s home from school today with the house to himself. He couldn’t be happier.”

Luke may be the younger of my two boys, but he’s definitely the more independent. He’s content to be alone and will figure things out in the absence of my or Peter’s help. I’d left him camped out in his room with his canaries Lennon and Ringo. I imagined that he was probably now playing online chess or practicing his piano undisturbed, aside from the occasional bird song. Luke has always had an ear for music. By his choice, he started to play the piano and take voice lessons at the age of five. For his eighth birthday he asked for a pet bird, so I got him a male canary since they sing so beautifully. Luke named him Lennon because he has a ring of feathers around his head that Luke insists look “just like the Beatles’ bangs.” A year later, he asked for a companion for his singing canary because, “Duh, Mom, Lennon needs a buddy.” So along came Ringo, who perfectly accompanies Lennon’s vocals and Luke’s piano chords.

“Still, you know how it goes—one person gets it, and the whole house goes down. My daughter caught it last winter, and it was only a matter of days until the boys had it, too.”

My neighbor Katherine had said nearly the same thing to me this morning when I walked Brett down the driveway to catch the bus. He’d asked me not to, but I’d insisted. “I just want two extra minutes with my oldest son, okay?”

Katherine was standing alongside Gilman, who acted equally embarrassed to have a mom escort. The boys greeted each other, mumbling, “Hey, man,” and quickly followed each other onto the bus.

As Katherine and I walked back toward our homes, she said with artificial concern, “How is Luke? Is he staying home today with pinkeye?”

How did she know Luke had pinkeye?

“Gilman told me that Peter picked him up from school yesterday. Conjunctivitis is so highly contagious, as I’m sure you know since you’re a doctor. I was relieved to hear that your husband was right there to bring him home.”

“That’s Peter,” I said, attempting to smile. “The dependable one.”

I returned my attention to Marnie. “I’ll bring home a box of latex ‘kid’ gloves to keep the germs at bay.” I nodded toward the ICU. “One sick ward is enough.”

Just then the front doors to the hospital swung open, bringing in a rush of cold air. A woman in dark sunglasses and a belted winter trench coat charged in.

“Who’s that?” muttered Marnie.

I took a guess. “Jeanne, Bob’s wife.”

The woman took off her glasses to reveal seemingly permanently arched eyebrows. She was striking in a beautiful but hardened way. Her eyes scanned the waiting room, and when she spotted me at the far end, she demanded, “Where is he?”

By “he,” I assumed she was speaking about Bob.

“He just left,” I said calmly, keeping my voice neutral.

She’d missed him by less than an hour. Bob had been my first client of the day before Jim and Becky. He was here right at nine, as had become his new morning routine, appearing with hot coffee for Marnie and me soon after we opened.

“My way of thanking you for all the extra care you’re giving my girls,” he said apologetically.

If anyone should apologize, I thought, it’s me. I wished Mathilda and Lily were responding to our treatments and showing signs of improvement, but neither of Bob’s gliders, especially Mathilda, was improving. Her young and fragile organs were losing their functionality. We were continuing to pump fluids under her skin to keep her hydrated, but she had stopped producing urine and was dangerously dehydrated. Ideally, we’d have placed an intravenous catheter in her leg to deliver fluids directly into her veins, as we do with many exotic pets, but her veins were just too tiny to thread a catheter into. There wasn’t much more we could do.

“I think it’s time we move Mathilda to an isolation ward,” I said regretfully.

“Move her?” Bob said distressed. “Why can’t they stay together?”

“I’d love to keep them together, but to prevent further spread of illness, I really need to separate them. This will give Lily a greater chance of survival.”

“And what about Mathilda? Will she—survive?”

I held back. There was no doubt in my mind she was dying, and she was likely in pain. At this point, I’d normally suggest euthanizing the animal. But sometimes doing what’s most humane for the pet is the most difficult decision for the owner to make. I looked into Bob’s sad eyes and realized that I, too, was hoping beyond reason that Mathilda would miraculously revive or that I’d finally find a way to save her before I lost her too.

Jeanne was positioned in the middle of the waiting room with her hands on her hips and her black pumps bolted to the ground. “I know they’re sick, Doctor. Of course, Bob tells me that it’s ‘nothing to worry about,’” she said sarcastically, making air quotes. “But I wasn’t born yesterday, you know. Just show me where they are,” she said impatiently.

I hesitated and considered that Bob was my client, not Jeanne. I didn’t have to answer to her. My responsibility was to his pets, Lily and Mathilda. Yet I couldn’t really throw his wife out in the cold. As much as I didn’t want to, I walked Jeanne back into the isolation ward. She gazed indifferently down at Mathilda.

“Why isn’t she moving?”

“We’re treating her for potential sepsis and hyporvolemia.”

Jeanne regarded me coolly. “I’m not exactly sure what that means, but judging by the look of her, it sounds serious. I don’t know what Bob has told you, but we cannot afford to keep any animal alive that isn’t going to make it.”

I regarded Jeanne from head to toe in her modish clothes and knew well that it wasn’t that Bob couldn’t afford it. It was that Jeanne didn’t support treatment of his animals. In other words, she didn’t think they were worth the expense. Before I could say a word, she turned on her high heels and left.

I retreated to my office and shut the door. My nerves were frayed. I slumped down in my swivel desk chair and stared blankly at my computer, hoping that an answer to the mystery would magically pop up on the screen. I closed my eyes in resignation. I just need five minutes of quiet before returning to rounds. But before I could get even that, the office phone rang. It was Simon, the glider breeder.

“Dr. Hess, I have the complete list of locations you asked for, where Exotic Essentials distributes and sells my gliders. Want me to go through them?”

“Yes, yes.” I reached for the list Elliot had compiled earlier. He’d spent the morning sifting through posts on Vets Connect, listing in alphabetical order the cities and states where other veterinarians had reported sugar glider tremors, illness, and deaths.

“Go ahead,” I said.

“New York, Connecticut, Massachusetts, Florida, Virginia, Illinois—”

As Simon read through the locations where his chief distributor sold his gliders, I made check marks next to the cities and states that matched up. When he finished, I scanned it from top to bottom.

I sighed and ran a hand through my hair. “They all match up.”

“They all match up to what?” I could hear the nervousness in his voice.

“In every city where gliders have been reported sick or have recently died, Exotic Essentials distributes to a nearby mall.”

Simon didn’t say a word. In fact, he was so unresponsive that I thought we might have been disconnected.

“Simon?”

“I don’t understand,” he finally said. “My animals aren’t showing any sign of sickness on the farm.”

I really wanted to believe that Simon was innocent in all this, one of the good guys. But I couldn’t ignore the red flags—about a dozen seemed to be pointing to his farm. Still, I found myself extending him more of my support.

“Walk me through your operation again. What happens to the gliders after they leave your farm?”

“Haven’t we been through this?”

“Simon, when news of this gets out, you will be asked questions like this.”

“If news of this gets out”—his voice began to quake—“I’m finished.”

“Walk me through it again,” I gently encouraged him.

“I pack the gliders myself into clean cages with heat rocks. This ensures that the animals stay warm, especially this time of year, when we don’t want the cages to drop below eighty degrees for the babies. The gliders are separated into colonies of ten to twelve per cage, so they have ample room to move around. I provide each driver with enough food and water to last throughout the trip. The animals drink from water bottles, and their food is covered and contained to prevent the spread of germs. They don’t travel more than seven or eight hours at a time, so in terms of cleaning, the cage paper can be changed as needed.”

“And who drives the trucks?”

“I’ve been using the same transport company for a decade. In fact, the same guys have been driving these routes for years. They never leave the animals alone in the trucks or unload them until they reach their location. Just like I do, they feel personally responsible for these animals.”

“Okay.” I paused to think, tracking the gliders’ journey from point A to point B in my head. “What happens after they arrive at the malls?”

“Their cages are directly unloaded from the trucks into the mall kiosks. It’s the first and last stop the animals make before they’re adopted into new homes.”

“Is it possible that they’re somehow becoming infected at the malls then?”

I asked the question although from everything I knew so far, the animals didn’t become sick until after they’d been adopted and were in their new homes. I thought back to what Jackie had said at the Johnson Valley Mall information desk. She’d described the gliders as jumping and flying all over the place, active behavior characteristic of healthy gliders. Maxine, too, along with Bob and Mr. Huntington, had said similar things. Maxine recounted that Georgie’s first night home had been sleepless for both her and her new pet because the young glider had bounced around, wide-eyed and energetic—exactly the type of wild night performance indicative of a healthy sugar glider.

“I can’t think of anything that the vendors are doing, or not doing,” Simon offered, “that would make the gliders sick, but why don’t I drive down to Winslow Mall today and take a look around? Would that help?”

“It couldn’t hurt.”

After we hung up, I tried my colleague Hannah again. I’d already called her twice this morning, and both times my call had gone straight to voice mail. I was anxious for her interpretation of the glider films and blood test results. Had she found anything that might explain what was making the young gliders become sick? I crossed my fingers that I’d learn something today that could save Mathilda’s life.

12:20 P.M.

ON THE MEDICAL record of my next patient, a macaw, Marnie had noted, “Possible broken wing.”

I swung open the door to the examination room to discover the macaw’s owner, Lee, precariously perched on the edge of the visitor’s bench with her left leg extended. Her foot was wrapped in gauze that she’d attempted to stuff into her bright red Dansko clog.

“Just look at me,” she pointed to her foot.

Lee and her five-year-old male hyacinth macaw, Bowie, were regular visitors to the animal hospital. Macaws, or New World parrots, are native to Central and South America and the Caribbean and are the largest genus of parrots, often three feet in length from head to tail, with magnificent beaks. The nineteen different species of macaws are generally named for their vibrant colors, from the red-feathered scarlet macaw, to the more common blue-and-gold macaw, to the very rare royal blue hyacinth macaw. Although the largest of the macaws, hyacinth macaws are perhaps the calmest and most even-tempered. That was definitely true of Bowie, who perched on Lee’s extended leg, crunching contentedly on a macadamia nut. Whereas Bowie usually appeared tall and regal, today I noticed an obvious droop in his left wing, which hung at least four inches lower than the right one.

“Broken wing and broken ankle?” I asked. “Are you both injured?”

“It’s that shower perch,” she fussed. “It’s always falling down.”

Many bird owners secure a perch like Lee was describing—typically a plastic rod bent at a ninety-degree angle that suctions at one end to the tiles of the shower wall. They create the ultimate birdbath.

“What happened this time?”

“We were taking our regular morning shower together. Bowie was singing like he loves to do from his perch underneath the shower head.” She leaned in toward Bowie and began to hum. “We were just singing in the rain, weren’t we, darlin’?” Bowie let out a long, shrill screech, and Lee chuckled. “You’re in love with your own voice, aren’t you?” She began to hum again.

“And then what happened?” I gently interrupted their little moment.

“And then the suction cup on the perch came loose.” She winced at the recollection. “It came right off the tile, and when I tried to catch him, I lost my balance.” She looked regrettably at Bowie’s wing. “He came down with me.”

The key to these devices is to find one with a reliable suction cup that can hold the full weight of the bird that will use it. Bowie weighed at least five pounds, clearly too heavy for the small perch Lee was describing. No wonder Bowie had ended up at the bottom of the tub.

I reached out to Bowie. “Step up on my hand, sweetie. Let me take a look.” Bowie stepped up obediently.

“Good boy.” I gently wrapped a towel around his powerful back and wings, which he seemed to enjoy, although not all big birds like to be held in this way. I’d examined my share of parrots who had tried to remove my finger with their large beaks when I approached with a towel. But Bowie had no problem with being bundled up, I imagined, since he was accustomed to toweling off after his daily shower. I handed him over to Marnie so that my hands were free to examine him.

“The size of the suction cups on the perch is important,” I said. “They need to be large and strong enough to support Bowie. He’s a big boy.” I reached underneath the towel and slowly extended Bowie’s wings simultaneously to compare his strength on each side. He flinched as I did so and struggled to pull his left wing back into his body. “There is noticeable weakness on this side,” I said to Lee. “We’re going to need to do an X-ray.” I suspected that the fall had broken the unique coracoid bone that birds have in their shoulders. “If that is the case, we’ll have to bandage his wing for the next few weeks, and he’ll have to rest in his cage. That also means no showers while his bandage is on, okay?”

Lee looked unhappy about the restriction but nodded in agreement.

“And you may want to consider fewer showers together in the future—fewer broken bones.”

Lee frowned. “But then who will serenade me?”

“Maybe you can find another perch in the house for your duets,” I said, affectionately.

I was just about to send Marnie off to take Bowie’s X-ray when Elliot pushed open the door.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he said anxiously, “but do you have a minute, Dr. Hess?”

I excused myself and followed him out into the hall.

“What now?”

“The media.”

The television in the boarding room was replaying a news report that Elliot had recorded. A TV reporter was standing inside a mall with a jeering crowd behind him.

“They’re the ultimate exotic pet,” a reporter with hair smoothed perfectly into place said, “and they’re up for sale at mall kiosks. But some of these tiny creatures are proving more difficult to care for than people might think. In fact, some are even turning up dead.”

“Oh, no,” I groaned. I backed up the video and played it again. Positioned directly behind the reporter, the sign was impossible to miss; it read “Sugar Buddies.”

“When did this air?” I asked. Simon’s words replayed in my mind. If news of this gets out, I’m finished.

“I caught it on my lunch break and recorded it right away,” Elliot said. “I think there’s another newscast coming up at three.”

I looked at my watch. “That’s in five minutes.”

Marnie, Elliot, and I crowded together in the boarding room with Chloe, a mini lop-eared rabbit, who was staying with us over the winter holiday while her owner, Mr. Lombardi, was away.

“You eat lunch in here?” Marnie asked Elliot.

“It’s got the biggest TV,” Elliot said with a hint of embarrassment. It was true. Once I’d discovered that a little screen time calmed our overnight guests, I’d upgraded the TV. Dora the Explorer and Barney & Friends were the most popular programs for the animals; they also loved listening to Judge Judy, who was ranting from her bench right now. I looked at Chloe, who was munching on a carrot, not missing a minute of it.

MR. LOMBARDI HAD dropped Chloe off nearly two weeks before. As any rabbit owner will tell you, every rabbit has a unique personality. Some are shy and timid, while others are more playful and outgoing. All are usually somewhat skittish about being handled until they have been picked up often enough not to be afraid. Chloe was one of the most well-adjusted lop-eared rabbits I’d ever cared for, probably due to the close and loving bond she had with her owner.

“Where are you going this time?” I’d asked Mr. Lombardi, who stood tall in a black cashmere topcoat with his silver hair secured neatly in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. A world-renowned conductor, he looked like a cross between an affluent hippie and a professor. He’d taken off his lined leather gloves and was gently stroking Chloe’s meticulously clean coat of fur. He moved his delicate fingers gracefully and rhythmically over Chloe’s back.

“Zurich, Frankfurt, Cologne, Paris, and London . . . a few others. It’s a nine-city tour,” he said with a slight note of complaint.

Whereas I would have welcomed such an exciting and cultural change in scenery, Mr. Lombardi said, as he always did, that he would rather stay close at home with Chloe. I believed that he loved his rabbit more than his musical career, and each and every time the orchestra went on tour, he was clearly pained by having to leave her behind.

“It’s going to be fine,” I’d assured him. “I’ll take excellent care of her. We love little Chloe and look forward to her stays with us.”

When Mr. Lombardi didn’t loosen his hold on Chloe, I knew this would be an extended good-bye. I began to prepare myself mentally for the forced extrication I’d have to perform in order to get Chloe free from his agile fingers.

“Just another minute, then I’ll be on my way,” he said, clutching Chloe a little closer.

“It’s fine, Mr. Lombardi. Take your time,” I said.

“You’ll tuck her in at night?”

“Yes,” I smiled. “Chloe will be safe and snug behind blackout shades and an alarm on the door.”

“Can I call to check in on her?”

“Absolutely. You can check in on Chloe anytime you want. I can text you every day, too, and let you know how she is, if you’d like.”

“That won’t be necessary.” He dismissed my offer with a wave of his hand. “I will call to check up.”

Yet Mr. Lombardi never called. I think he just wanted to feel that Chloe was safe and cared for and to know that, if he needed to call, I’d answer and indulge him without question.

“Well, I guess I should be going now.” He brought Chloe up close to his face and lightly touched her nose with his own. Rabbit and conductor held each other’s gaze for one long, sweet moment. Then Mr. Lombardi straightened up and turned to me with dignity. “I’ll be back in two weeks.” He handed Chloe to me and then turned quickly and walked away with the air of confidence the world stage expected from him.

CHLOE WAS MESMERIZED as Judge Judy made her final ruling of the day. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” the judge said with mock vehemence. She lowered her gavel and growled, “Now get out of my courtroom.”

After the show credits flew past, the same reporter from earlier reappeared on screen with his microphone in hand. My stomach turned over.

“They travel mall to mall advertising these maintenance-free pets perfect for kids six and up,” he said. A young girl in ponytails standing beside the reporter gushed, “They seem so cuddly and cute. I have to have one!”

Behind them, sugar gliders jumped and soared through the air as a crowd of mall onlookers tittered with enthusiasm. The reporter continued, “But animal experts familiar with sugar gliders say this company may be misleading consumers on the care required to keep these exotic pets alive and healthy. Some animal right activists suggest even that they are bred in inhumane conditions and that they are undernourished and treated poorly.”

I winced. “Inhumane?” I reserve that term for instances of animal cruelty: starvation, abandonment, and neglect. Though local animal rights activists bring attention to many injustices done to animals and their work can be instrumental in saving animals’ lives, I had seen no indication that Simon was intentionally causing harm to his gliders. I threw up my arms. “Since when did animal rights get involved in this?”

“And now,” the reporter continued, “a local veterinarian reports a rash of sick, malnourished, and dying gliders coming into local offices, all sold from mall kiosks.”

My jaw dropped to the floor. Marnie looked similarly stunned.

“Laurie?” she said with ambiguity.

“Not me,” I shot back.

A local veterinarian, the reporter said. Who are they talking about? Who would that be? I wracked my mind. Wait a minute, I thought. No, it couldn’t have been . . . Hannah? Had she gone to the press with this? I’d called upon her to advise and help me. All this media attention was not going to help. I was running my hands through my hair again, trying to make sense of it all, when my phone vibrated from inside my lab coat pocket. I jerked it out.

It was Simon. I reluctantly pressed answer.

“Why did you go to a reporter with this?” His voice was shaking. I could hear the anger and the hurt. “I thought we were trying to work this out . . . together.”

“Simon,” I appealed, “it wasn’t me. I’m surprised as you are. I think a colleague of mine in Long Island may have talked to this reporter.”

“Well, it’s all over for me now. Winslow Mall is pulling the kiosk. As soon as the story ran, they started getting irate phone calls and emails. There’s even an online petition circulating now to block any mall from selling sugar gliders. A mall representative said to me, ‘The mall strives to offer programs that add value to shoppers’ experience.’ In other words, they don’t want the bad press. Neither does my distributor. They’re blaming me. They’re cutting me as a supplier and returning the full shipment of gliders back to the farm.”

“I’m so sorry, Simon.”

“And you won’t believe this,” he said with sharpness I hadn’t heard before. “I was there, at the mall, when the reporter showed up. I’d driven down to Long Island to check out the kiosk like we talked about. I’d just completed a head-to-toe on the operation.”

“And . . . what did you find?”

“Nothing!” he nearly shouted. “There’s nothing ‘inhumane’ going on there. The cages are clean. The animals aren’t overcrowded. They’re not underweight or malnourished; they all have fresh food and water. They’re as healthy as when I loaded them onto the trucks.”

He lowered his voice. “This rash of sickness—it’s coming from somewhere else. You need to tell your colleague that. You need to tell anyone who asks you that our company was founded on the idea of making sure these animals are adopted out in an ethically responsible way.”

“Why don’t you make a public statement?” I suggested delicately.

“I’m not talking to the press.” Simon shot back. “They’ve already decided I’m guilty.”

He hung up, and my legs wobbled. I reached out for the wall, and Marnie stepped in to steady me.

“You okay? When was the last time you checked your blood sugar? Have you eaten today?”

“It’s fine, I’m fine,” I said. “I never forget that anymore.”

Not since I’d helped Betty Frank off the floor a few years before.

BETTY ENTERED THE examination room wearing her infant pet wallaby, Willie, in a BabyBjörn–like carrier on her chest. His eyes were closed, indicating that he was asleep. I smiled at his big, floppy legs sticking out of the carrier, and Betty sank down in the examination room chair and sighed, expressing a note of physical exhaustion common to new mothers.

Wallabies are marsupials, in the same family as sugar gliders and kangaroos. Female wallabies have a pouch in which their babies nurse and grow. To help the animals adjust to living among people, I encourage wallaby owners to carry their pets in a similar front pack for several weeks, if not longer, until they are socialized.

“Do we really have to do this?” she asked.

“It’s a common procedure, and I promise he won’t feel anything. General anesthesia and a few hours to rest and recover.”

We try to neuter wallabies like Willie when they’re young. Once they are full-grown adults, they’re much harder to handle. The largest species of wallaby can grow up to six feet tall. I’d not treated a wallaby of this size, but even the smaller ones have strong back legs that enable them to jump and a broad, long tail that they use for balance and support. Over the years, I’d been kicked around by a few.

Betty asked, “Do you have any candy in here? I’m feeling a little woozy.”

“I have some gum, but it’s sugar free,” I said as I turned around to grab a stick off the back examination table.

“Your wallaby looks a little heavy,” I said while searching around for my pack of Orbit Wintermint. “Be sure you’re feeding him the less sugary stuff, too.”

Wallabies are prone to developing a condition called “lumpy jaw,” a bacterial infection in the jaw to which sugary treats in an imbalanced diet can contribute.

“Ah, here it is,” I said, retrieving the pack from behind a box of Kleenex. I turned around to hand Betty a stick, and she was sliding off her chair. The chair had wheels, and they were rolling out from under her and in my direction. I instinctively moved forward to catch her, but not in time. Bang! She fell to the floor and knocked her head. Willie, stuffed tightly into his front pack, felt and heard the thud of Betty hitting the floor and opened his eyes wide. His ears perked straight up, and he began to struggle to wriggle free, clearly aware that his “mama” was in distress. I panicked. What should I do? She appeared to be suffering from critically low blood sugar, a diabetic condition I was very familiar with myself. I quickly grabbed a syringe full of 50 percent dextrose—sugar water, effectively, the kind we administer to hypoglycemic and diabetic animals—but just as I was about to stick her, I stopped myself. I can’t inject Betty. She’s not an animal; she’s a person. I’m not that kind of doctor. I’d treated diabetes in ferrets, guinea pigs, and birds before and had even published papers about the endocrine disorder in the Journal of the American Veterinary Medical Association. I’d written about how diagnosing and treating diabetes in exotic animals was nearly impossible, as most exotics require minute—almost immeasurable—amounts of insulin to manage the disease, and it’s often hard to know exactly what dosage, based on their regular diet, they need. I looked down at Betty as I held the shot of dextrose in my hand, and though tempted to give it to her, I couldn’t pretend that I was a physician, legally licensed to treat people. So instead I did what I knew I could safely do: I filled a glass of water from the sink and got down on the floor next to her. I propped her head on my leg and stroked Willie to calm him.

“Betty, can you hear me?”

When she opened her mouth to speak, I said, “Drink this down.”

“Thank you,” she said and lifted it to her lips, still shaky and unsteady. “I’m a diabetic,” she slurred. “This is what happens when you forget to eat.” Betty reached down and tugged at Willie’s fuzzy ears.

“Mama’s okay, now,” she whispered. As she continued to massage his ears, his body seemed to relax, and he sank back down into his pouch carrier. After about five more minutes sitting on the floor, I helped Betty back up into her chair. When she assured me she was feeling better, I ran down the hall and fetched her a string cheese and an apple from my own stash in the kitchen.

I’d sworn in that moment that I’d never put myself in a similar position, and mostly I’d kept to that promise.

MARNIE GAVE ME an admonishing look and wagged her finger. “Don’t let me catch you lying to me.” She turned to Elliot. “Go get Laurie a string cheese out of the fridge, would you?” Marnie led me gently by the arm down the hall to my office.

“Sit down and take five. Eat your cheese, and then call Hannah. You need your strength before the next confrontation.” She squeezed my shoulder and left me alone.

I sat and ate my cheese, and then I dialed Hannah’s number, anticipating that the call would be forwarded again to voice mail. This time, she answered on the first ring.

“Laurie, I assume you’re calling about the TV coverage,” she started right in. “And I should have warned you, but I really hoped he wouldn’t take it this far.”

“He? Who? It wasn’t you who called this reporter?”

“No,” Hannah firmly defended. “Did you think I’d called? I’m sure it was Dr. Barnes. He’s a cat and dog vet down the road. A real pill, between you and me. Makes everything his business.”

“I’m confused. I thought you made the call. How did this other doctor get involved in this?”

“He read about the recent glider deaths on the message board on Vets Connect. You do know all of your postings are public, don’t you?”

“Uh, sure,” I shrugged. I hadn’t thought to make the postings private; I’d hoped that by casting a wide net within the community, I’d have a better chance of receiving help or at least a lead as to where the illness was coming from.

“Dr. Barnes read your posts, so he knew that gliders were sick and dying in Bedford Hills, and then when he learned that sugar gliders were on sale at Winslow Mall, he called me. Asked me if I knew anything about it, if I’d treated any sick gliders on Long Island.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“That I had not admitted any sick gliders to my hospital but that you and I were aware of recent events in the area and that we were working closely together to determine the source of illness and prevent any spread.”

“Anything else? How did he link Sugar Buddies specifically to the glider deaths?”

Hannah cleared her throat. “Laurie, I had no idea he’d go to a local reporter with this.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. She’d told him everything.

“I’m so sorry,” she said.

I took a deep breath. There was no sense getting mad at Hannah. It had been only a matter of time before people started putting two and two together, just as I had.

“It’s okay,” I said. “Still, I can’t believe he’d go to a reporter with this. His accusations that the animals are malnourished and treated poorly just aren’t true. Unless you discovered something in the blood test results and films? Did you?”

“No, nothing you hadn’t already identified. I explained to him that none of the sick gliders you treated had any signs of abuse or neglect, but he wouldn’t listen to me. He was on his soapbox, insisting, ‘This is what happens when you breed these animals at mills and schlep them from place to place like circus animals. They get sick.’” Hannah paused. “I don’t agree with how he handled it, but the adoption operation does sound a little impersonal. Don’t you think?”

“It’s untraditional, sure. But I don’t think we can call it inhumane.”

“But—” she said cautiously.

“But what?”

“We just can’t ignore that these animals are dying.”

“Ignore?” I shot back defensively. That sugar gliders were getting sick was all I could think about. Helpless animals were dying under my care nearly every day despite all my efforts to save them. I despaired at the image of Mathilda deteriorating at the bottom of her cage now.

“I’m sorry,” Hannah retracted. “I shouldn’t have said it that way. I just meant that maybe we should consider whether some of what Dr. Barnes is saying might be true.”

I felt that I was on the verge of tears again, but I willed them back. With measured calm, I said, “Until we determine the source of illness, we can’t point fingers. We need more information. Dr. Barnes doesn’t have the whole story. None of us do. But there are a number of vets across the country, including you and me, committed to figuring this out. If Dr. Barnes calls you again, kindly ask him to stop speaking to the press. Or I will.”

“I’ll do it,” she conceded. “But Laurie, between you and me, aren’t you just a little bit suspicious of this company?”

“I don’t know, Hannah. I just don’t know yet.”

4:30 P.M.

I CONTINUED TO play my conversation with Hannah over and over again in my head. Was Sugar Buddies in some way responsible for the dozens of sugar glider deaths across the country—what some of my colleagues were now calling an “epidemic”? What was I missing? Caught up in my back-and-forth thoughts, when I stepped out of my office and into the hallway, I didn’t notice Alan, our delivery guy, with a bag of bird food in one arm and Alan the degu in the other. I ran right into them. When we collided, the rodent dropped to the floor and went scurrying down the hall with its tail between his legs.

“Degu down!” I cried and went running in his direction. I chased Alan down the hall until I caught up with him. I reached down and snatched him. When I straightened up, I stopped abruptly. Maxine, Georgie’s owner, was standing in the middle of the waiting room.

“Doctor Hess,” her voice was shaking. “I’m sorry I didn’t return your call the other day, but I just didn’t want to talk any more about Georgie’s passing. But then I just saw the TV report about the company that sells sugar gliders from malls.” She began to tear up, and her cheeks flushed red. “I bought Georgie from a Sugar Buddies mall kiosk in Connecticut. Is that why he got so sick?”

With my dark curls obscuring my face and an agitated degu struggling under my arm, I stepped forward and embraced Maxine. I wasn’t sure what to tell her, other than that, again, Georgie’s death was not her fault.

6:30 P.M.

I THANKED MAXINE for making what must have been, for her, a very difficult trip to the hospital and assured her that my colleagues and I were working as hard as we could to determine the cause of Georgie’s death, when I remembered my plans to meet Peter at the Gathering Hole, our favorite spot in downtown Mount Kisco. As we had been rushing out the door this morning, going in our separate directions, I’d suggested we meet there for happy hour, just the two of us, for a quick glass of wine in a cozy booth, before I returned to the hospital for another late night of monitoring Lily and Mathilda.

“My treat”—I wrapped my arms around him before he got into his car—“for picking Luke up from school yesterday. And for being the most accommodating husband ever.”

“I won’t argue with that,” he said with a wink.

But now I was late. I hoped that Peter would be in a generous mood. I hurried out the door, crunching along the snowy path to the parking lot. After the initial roar of the ignition, I couldn’t help but notice how quiet it was in the car. No squawks, screeches, howls, or screams. In many ways, the sudden absence of noise was louder than anything I’d heard all day. I drove quietly along Route 117 to the Gathering Hole, allowing the silence to envelope me until I heard a familiar voice—my own—and it was clearly saying, “Laurie, slow down.” I backed off the accelerator and resumed the speed limit, arriving at our favorite downtown pub nearly thirty minutes late.

It took my eyes a moment to adjust to the dark interior, and I scanned the low-lit bar. I didn’t spot Peter there. I peeked into the dining room, and he wasn’t there either. As I pulled out my phone to text him, the receptionist approached me. “It’s Laurie, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I’m looking for Peter, my husband.”

She smiled. “He said you’d probably still be wearing your lab coat.”

“Oh, jeez,” I said as I looked down. “I’m always doing this. Did he call?” I wondered if Peter was running late too. That would be a first.

“No,” she said apologetically. “He was here and then he left. Said he’d meet you at home.”

I’d done it again—I was too late.

I FOUND PETER sitting quietly on the couch in the family room, wearing the same discontented expression he reserves for Brett and Luke when they push him too far. I immediately registered his disappointment on a grand scale. I approached him slowly.

“I’m so sorry . . .” I started to say.

Peter shook his head, held up his hand in protest, and said, “Stop.”

So I did. I stopped short, in the middle of the living room, and continued to stand there until Peter motioned for me to sit down. I sat on the opposite side of the couch facing him and quietly waited. I thought back to a pre-boxing-match celebrity party that Peter’s company had sponsored a few years before. He had been so excited to take me along because rumor had it that Annabella Sciorra from The Sopranos would be making an appearance. Peter has always asserted that I resemble her, so we thought it’d be fun to do a side-by-side comparison. But before we had the opportunity, I received an emergency call from the hospital.

“I have to take this call,” I had said apologetically to Peter.

“You’re going to miss Annabella,” he said with a frown. “Can’t it wait?”

I’d promised to return quickly, but the only place I could get a clear signal was outside the arena, on the street. Teetering up and down the sidewalk in my satin high heels and a red strapless gown, I tried to reassure the owner of a mynah bird whose blood vessel he’d nicked during a routine wing-feather trimming. He couldn’t get the bleeding to stop, and he was panicked. I explained how to apply pressure and cornstarch to the bleeding feather to get it to clot. By the time I returned to the cocktail party, nearly an hour had passed. I walked up and looped my arm through Peter’s, hoping he’d forgive my delay. He leaned into me and said in a curt whisper, “You’re too late.”

He said the same words again now, and there was no arguing with him.

“Laurie, we made a deal a long time ago that I wouldn’t nag you about your health or your long hours at the hospital, or even your pet family, so long as you also take care of this one—me and the boys. It’s about balance, about meeting in the middle, and tonight you didn’t meet me anywhere. You left me sitting at a table alone.”

He stood up and walked toward the stairs. I could hear Luke in his room playing his upcoming recital piece on his piano keyboard. Peter turned back toward me and said wearily, “I know you have to return to the hospital.”

“Just for a few hours,” I said, then added as a consolation, “but I can stay here for a while before I go back.”

“The boys are already fed, and their homework’s nearly done. I told them you’d be coming home late, so why don’t you just go ahead. No sense telling them you’re home when you just have to leave again.”

The piano notes of John Mayer’s “Dreaming with a Broken Heart” pierced me. In that moment all I wanted to do was climb the stairs and stand quietly behind Luke as he played so tenderly. I dropped my eyes to the floor. What Peter was saying was regrettably true. When the boys learned that I wasn’t staying to say good night and tuck them in, they’d be more disappointed than if they hadn’t seen me at all. I stayed planted on the couch in the family room until I heard Peter close our upstairs bedroom door. He was right; I’d lost the balance. School plays, soccer games, Peter’s business dinners—I had missed so many events since I opened the hospital that I had stopped counting. The years were rolling by, and if I didn’t start making more time for Peter and the boys, I would lose moments I could never get back. I stood up and only then noticed Dale on his perch in the corner of the room. He was so quiet, not his usual squawky self. He must be feeling the tension too. I tearfully slipped outside the door and drove the dark streets back toward the hospital.